


Romeo + Juliet

by spongiform-encephalopathies (turketspy)



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, M/M, Romeo and Juliet References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:45:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 43,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5499218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turketspy/pseuds/spongiform-encephalopathies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz has been in love with Simon since their fifth year at Watford, but getting his attention hasn't exactly been successful. Their eighth year's play will be an all-male cast of Romeo and Juliet. Simon is guaranteed the role of Romeo. So Baz does the only thing he can do to grab Simon's attention. He's going to audition for Juliet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday, November 9, 2015

**Simon**

I have to admit, I’m a little excited when the posters go up for auditions for this year’s play. We usually do a musical. But this year, since most of us in the theater program are seniors, we decided to do something a bit different. 

This year, we decided to do a “traditional” showing of _Romeo and Juliet_. “Traditional” meaning an entirely male cast. It’s really cool. Doing Shakespeare as it would have been done originally. And we aren’t making it all posh, either. Because that would defeat the purpose. 

Penny hates it. She says, “It’s sexist, Simon! Why should we do an all male cast of _Romeo and Juliet_ just because that’s how it would have been done originally? It was sexist then and it’s sexist now. Especially since Watford is co-ed.” 

It isn’t that I don’t agree with her. She’s right. The theater was horribly sexist during Shakespeare’s time. And we do go to a co-ed school, so it would make sense for the cast to be co-ed. 

“Almost all of the actors in the theater program are male right now, though. The stage hands and lighting techs and everyone else are mixed up, but we don’t have any female actors right now. Miss Possibelf says it’s the craziest thing she’s ever seen. She’s done all female casts before, but never all male. She’s really excited.” I pause. Penny’s riled up. She’s doing the thing where she’s listening, but she’s already made up her mind. She’s done it since we were kids, mostly with Mum and Prem, but she does it with me sometimes too. Apparently now is one of those times. “I’m really excited about it, Penny.”

Her expression softens and she sighs, “I know, Simon. And I’ll go see it to support you. But I am protesting. I won’t do stage work.”

She usually does sets when I’m in the play. It’s a way to spend time together, the two of us. Of course, around her schoolwork she helps me run lines when we do plays and makes fun of my singing when we do musicals, but this is different. It’s a time for us to catch up without homework and stuff. Sibling time, if you will. 

“That’s fair,” I respond. And it is. She’s protesting. “We’ll do dinner instead?”

She nods. “Yeah, alright.”

**Baz**

“Yeah, but _Romeo and Juliet_? Why did it have to be that one? Why couldn’t it have been _Julius Caesar_? Or _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_? I could have been Puck!” I feel a bit manic -- more than a bit -- on the phone with Fiona. “I would have made a great Puck! And him as Oberon? I would have been just like the Globe performance!”

Her voice crackles back, “You’re absolutely gone on this bloke, aren’t you?” 

"I think so," I groan, tugging at my hair. "He's just so infuriatingly good, Fiona. And he'll probably be Romeo because he's Miss Possibelf's favorite."

"Well, you have two options, Basil," Fiona says, all business. I hate her business voice. It means evil. Always. She's a photographer, so her business voice always means something's wrong. Something you won't like. She once used that voice to tell a bride that her train had ripped. Devastating, evil things. 

"What are my two options, Fi?" I sigh. I already know that I'm not going to like them. 

"The first," she says imperiously, still all-business, "is to pine. Just pine. And whinge to me about it for the rest of your life."

I suppress a groan. "What's my second option?" 

"Your second option, my young grasshopper, is to audition for the damn play and be the Juliet to his golden-haired Romeo."

I don't remember if I hung up on Fiona, or if we finished out our conversation. Whatever happened, that's the only portion that keeps playing over and over again in my head. "Be the Juliet to his golden-haired Romeo."

Simon Snow's hair is more bronze than gold, but I get her point. And it makes me sick. Because what other option do I have at this point? I've been trying since fifth year to get his attention, but that hasn't worked. It's only made him hate me. And I get why. Demented fifteen-year-old me decided that the best way to get Simon Snow's attention would be to figuratively pull his pigtails. It was positively insane. I once trapped a snake in his locker. It was a harmless thing, and of course he couldn't prove it was me. But we both knew.

I think I also may have taken delight in taunting him for being adopted. Which was really a shitty thing to do, even as a demented fifteen-year-old. 

I like to think I'm better now, as a still-demented (but less so) eighteen-year-old. I haven't trapped animals in his locker since the snake, and I've made a point of keeping my trap shut about the Bunces. And I don't even passive aggressively take a shower five minutes before it's his turn anymore.

That's something that I haven't even told Fiona about. That Simon Snow, the boy I've been in love with since I was fifteen, is my roommate. She knows that I live with a boy named Simon, and she knows that I've been pining after a boy named Simon. But those are two separate Simons as far as she knows. And they'll stay that way. Most likely until this bloody play that I'm auditioning for.


	2. Friday, November 20, 2015

**Simon**

Auditions for a production this large are typically three days long. One day for main characters and two for side characters and extras. Most of the school comes out for auditions most years. But this year, since we're doing an all-male cast, auditions have been cut down to two days. We likely won't have as many extras, and there also probably won't be much competition for the lead roles. No one wants to snog a bloke on stage, and either way they're fucked. 

I'm auditioning for Romeo. Because Miss Possibelf expects it, and because I've always wanted to play Romeo. Even if my Juliet will be a bloke in a dress. And, actually, the idea of Juliet being played by a bloke doesn't really bother me that much. I know it should. Probably should, anyway. But it doesn't. 

The theater lobby is packed when I get there. It absolutely floors me how strange what we're doing is. There are no girls. Not even to audition for extras. I'm sure Penny is organizing a protest of some sort. I'm sure it'll involve having zero help from half of the student body making sets, but we'll manage. 

There are no group auditions for the leads. It's a monologue. Given on the stage. With spots. In front of Miss Possibelf. And a few other people, of course. She never decides casting on her own. She usually brings in friends from the local theater company who help as a favor. We've met some very interesting people because of that. Last year, I think, she asked a visiting actor to come in and help with casting. He was American, very full of himself, and an altogether git. But he told some really great stories from Broadway.

Auditions for Romeo and Juliet will be the last of the day, and if Miss Possibelf didn't want us all here early I'm sure half of these people wouldn't be here. I recognize a few of them, Garrett and Rhys, a few blokes from the football team, and some of the guys from the theater program all say hello as I pass. They only stop for a second though because most of them are reading scripts and running lines while they wait. They don't have to have anything memorized for auditions. Miss Possibelf doesn't look for memorization when she casts, delivery is the most important thing. But having something memorized helps with the guest judges. 

You can tell who's auditioning for what role by what they're reading or rehearsing. Rhys, Garrett, and the others are all in for Mercutio or Benvolio. They're the next best to Romeo. There are a few Friar Laurences hanging out nearby, and I overhear a few Tybalts as I make my way past the stage doors. The groups get smaller and more spread out as I continue down the hall, but wondering that bothers me is the lack of females roles I overheard. I think I overheard a Nurse or two, but no Juliets. None. That really worries me.

I'm making my way to the dressing rooms behind the stage. After the show sixth year, they're my favorite place to practice before auditions. Penny and I even come sometimes after hours to run lines. We have a secret stash of food in one of the closets, and we have extra pillows too, just in case we're here late. Miss Possibelf pretends she doesn't know. And she really doesn't mind all that much. As long as we don't leave a mess or break anything, she's content to look the other way. 

It's supposed to be locked, closed to the public when there isn't a play. That includes during auditions. There's no reason for anyone to be back here. But as I slip the key that I'm borrowing from Ebb into the lock, I hear someone talking inside. I can't make out who it is, and I have no idea who it might be. 

But it's a monologue. And whoever it is is really good. Like, really good. I can hear them clearly enough through the door to know that they'll probably get whatever role they're auditioning for. Maybe it's Juliet.

**Baz**

Juliet has a few long speaking parts sprinkled throughout the play that I could use for my audition piece. Some of them are quite long, but most aren't. Most of them aren't like the long, rambling pieces that the male characters get. How sexist of you, Bill. I chose, instead of a long, rambling monologue, a simple snippet of dialogue in Act II when Juliet asks Romeo to prove that he loves her. It's one that most people overlook, I think, but it's a testament to Juliet's immaturity. She was twelve, for Crowley's sake. 

"Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay,'  
And I will take thy word; yet if thou swear'st,  
Thou may prove false; at lovers' perjuries  
Then say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,  
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:  
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,  
I'll frown and be perverse an say thee nay,  
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world." 

I don't go on. I can't. I absolutely loathe the character of this girl, this pining child who thinks she's in love with a boy she's barely met. But I'm not doing this because I like the character or the play. I hate the character and the play. I wish that it had been something like _Julius Caesar_. I'm doing it for Simon. Because this is my last chance before we graduate. This is my grand gesture. 

I just hope it works.

**Simon**

Miss Possibelf begins right on time with an announcement to all of us about the order we'll audition in. She tells us that we'll have to all file out of the auditorium with our groups so that none of us can watch the others perform, but we're welcome to watch the auditions for other characters. There's a mass exodus when she announces that first up with be Mercutio. 

Hours drag on as she calls up the Benvolios, Tybalts, Nurses, and Friar Laurences. None of the auditions are terrible, and there are a few really good ones. But most are just average. I work a bit on homework, doing readings for Political Science and History as I wait. Auditions are a great time to do homework. Always. 

Finally it’s time for the Romeos to go up. A lot of the blokes auditioning for other characters have filed back in and are chatting amongst themselves as the few of us auditioning for Romeo get up and leave. We file out and around behind the stage to mill about in the waiting area. I’ll probably go last. Miss Possibelf always calls us in alphabetical order, and there are very few in the alphabet after “Snow”. 

My last name is technically Bunce, but all of my teachers place me alphabetically using my middle name. Bunce just doesn’t fit the alliteration of my first and middle names. Simon Snow Bunce. It’s a good name, but it doesn’t sound quite as good as Simon Snow. 

I sit across the hall from the stage door while everyone else paces, waiting. I’m not nervous because I know my lines. I know them as well as I’ll ever know them, and I won’t get any better by getting nervous and obsessively reciting my lines. I just wish the rest of the guys out here understood that. I recognize some of them from the dining hall, they’re all underclassmen, but I don’t know any of their names. One of them, a particularly shaky boy who’s probably a fifth year at most, looks like he’s here only because his mum expects him to be. He probably didn’t tell her that Juliet would be a bloke. 

When I finally get to the stage, I notice the audience sigh in relief. Were they really that bad? I’d be willing to bet they all did the same piece. I’d also be willing to bet that it went something like “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” 

“My name is Simon Snow and I’ll be auditioning for the part of Romeo. Today I will read from Act III, Scene III.” 

Show time.

“'Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,  
Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog  
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,  
Live here in heaven and may look on her;  
But Romeo may not: more validity,  
More honourable state, more courtship lives  
In carrion-flies than Romeo: they my seize  
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand  
And steal immortal blessing from her lips,  
Who even in pure and vestal modesty,  
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;  
But Romeo may not; he is banished:  
Flies may do this, but I from this must fly:  
They are free men, but I am banished.  
And say'st thou yet that exile is not death?  
Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife,  
No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean,  
But 'banished' to kill me?--'banished'?  
O friar, the damned use that word in hell;  
Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,  
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,  
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd,  
To mangle me with that word 'banished'?”

I let Romeo’s sorrow sweep over me as I deliver his lines. I can’t exactly say that I’ve ever felt what he’s feeling, so I don’t really have a point of reference. But to be told that you’ve been banished to keep you from seeing the girl you love? That’s rough. I gesture in places that I feel are important, pause in places that require it, and speed up to a manic pace toward the end. I probably get a little carried away. 

But when I finish, there’s applause. Lots of applause. Well. I guess I got Romeo. 

**Baz**

Snow is fantastic. I haven’t watched him perform before because I never have time to see the plays. But he is bloody brilliant. 

Then Miss Possibelf announces that the moment we’ve all been waiting for has arrived. It’s my turn. 

**Simon**

Only one person leaves the theater when Miss Possibelf calls for Juliets. I can’t make out who it is, but I’m practically vibrating from the anticipation. They were good, from what I heard. They were passionate. He was passionate, sincere. He’s going to be a great addition to the show. Whoever he is. 

It’s a good few minutes before Miss Possibelf calls out, “All right, we’re ready for you.” 

A figure walks out onto the stage and the shock takes me a full minute to process. 

Baz. 

**Baz**

The stage lights are bright and hot. I don’t know that I’ve ever been on this end of them before today. I’ve never really been interested in theater, despite feeling the urge to go see the plays and musicals since Snow started appearing in them our fourth year. I’ve always found it..unnecessary. But this. This is necessary. 

I take a deep breath. The air is cool, in spite of the heat of the lights and it helps to calm the pounding in my chest. 

“My name is Basilton Pitch and I am auditioning for the part of Juliet. I am reading from Act II, Scene II.” 

The word “reading” is a formality. I’m not actually reading anything. Many people did, of course, but I overheard Snow telling Penelope that it’s more impressive to Miss Possibelf’s visiting judges if you deliver a memorized piece. It looks better for your ability to memorize the whole play. 

Another deep breath. Miss Possibelf gestures to me to begin. I nod. Swallow.

“Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,  
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek  
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night  
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny  
What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!”

I turn to look into the audience, scanning. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself to see if he’s still here. He probably isn’t. He probably left as soon as I stepped on stage. 

“Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay,'  
And I will take thy word: yet if thou swear'st,  
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries  
Then say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,  
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:  
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,  
I'll frown and be perverse an say thee nay,  
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.”

But there he is. His stupid mouth hanging open as if he’d seen a ghost. I deliver the next lines directly to him. 

“In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,  
And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light:  
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true  
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.”

It’s true. I am being the most genuine I ever have been in this moment. I want him to see me. I want him to see the sincerity of this whole grand gesture. 

“I should have been more strange, I must confess,  
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,  
My true love's passion: therefore pardon me,  
And not impute this yielding to light love,  
Which the dark night hath so discovered.”

Miss Possibelf is the first to stand, but my eyes are still on Simon. His face is frozen in the same open-mouthed mask as it was when I first found him in the crowd. It’s bloody unreadable, isn’t it? My ears are ringing. I think I manage a “thank you” before I amble awkwardly off the stage. 

**Simon**

“He’s going to ruin it. He’s going to ruin everything.”

“You don’t know that, Simon,” Penny says. She scratches at her shoulder absently. “Maybe he’s always wanted to play Juliet. And this this was his one chance to do it.” 

I have a hard time suppressing the scoff that comes up. “No, he’s planning to ruin everything. He knows that this is my last play and he’s going to do everything in his power to make sure that it’s ruined. He hates me, Penny. And this is his one last chance to fuck everything up for me.”

“But Simon, he hasn’t done anything since fifth year. Why would he start back now?” She punctuates her sentence by opening a textbook and flopping it onto my desk. 

She’s right. Mostly. But I can’t get over the gnawing feeling in my gut that this is all part of some elaborate plan of Baz’s. To wreck everything for me in my senior year. Of course, it’s his senior year as well. And we have gone three years of him not trying to make my life a living hell. Which, really, shouldn’t be as big a deal as it is. “Oh, he hasn’t tried to kill you in three years, Simon! Why would he start back now?” Because he’s an absolute wanker, that’s why. But I don’t say that. Not when he could walk in the room at any time. I don’t want to give him a reason to try to off me in my sleep tonight. 

“I dunno, Penny,” I sigh. “It doesn’t make any sense, but I can’t help feeling like this is all the beginning of some great, big, elaborate plot. Like the catacombs.”

Penny rolls her eyes at me. “The catacombs weren’t a plot, Simon. He was going to visit his mum’s grave. You just thought he was up to something.” 

“Yeah, well, he could have just said that.” 

After he put a gigantic snake in my locker fifth year, Baz took to wandering the grounds at night. It drove me absolutely mental. He’d wait until he thought I was asleep, then snuck out. I tried to ignore it the first few nights, but eventually I couldn’t sleep because I was wondering constantly where the hell he was going. So I started following him. And that was a grand idea. It was almost like he wanted me to follow him then. He would lead me through the wood at the edge of the grounds, then in loops around the buildings, then I would finally lose him at the White Chapel. Until finally it occurred to me to go inside the chapel. 

It was a particularly rainy night and I’d been tailing Baz for hours when we finally got to the White Chapel. I was soaked through to the bone, and shuddering from the cold. So I decided to go inside and get warm before going back to our room. As I got inside and the door closed behind me, I just barely noticed a door behind the altar closing. 

I didn’t find Baz until a few nights later. I waited a bit longer to follow him out to hopefully convince him that I wasn’t following him that night, then went directly to the chapel. Sure enough, the door behind the altar was closing as I walked in the doors. I crept through the door behind the altar (flanked by busts of Lewis Carroll and Dr. Seuss, of all people) and followed as Baz’s shadow slipped around a corner. 

When I got to him, Baz was sitting beside a pile of skulls, looking for all the world like he was about to either pass out or puke. 

I helped him back to our room and got him in bed, as he was in no state to get back himself. He told me later that his mum was buried down there. There was an attack of some sort, an enemy of the family or something like that, and headmistress of the time, Natasha Pitch, was killed defending her son. It was a horrible story, and when he told me, I felt sorry for him. 

Now I feel bad bringing it up. 

Penny sighs and turns to look at me straight on. “How was his audition?” 

I look away, feeling about like a scolded child. “It was really good. He was really good.” 

“Yeah? And did he seem genuine? Like he actually wanted to be there?”

“More than some of the blokes there auditioning for Romeo. He was really nervous when he was on stage. And he looked at me, Penny. Directly at me while he was doing his bit.” It was the strangest thing. I was sitting in shock, mouth probably gaping open from it, and he just turns to look right at me. Like he was talking to me. I don’t tell her that he found me right before he did the bit when Juliet asks Romeo to prove that he loves her. It was probably an act to shake me up. It worked. 

**Baz**

I pause outside the door to the room I share with Simon and listen carefully. Penelope is there. And they’re talking about the show. Talking about how I’m going to ruin the show. 

“How was his audition?” I hear Bunce ask, clearly fed up with her brother’s paranoia. 

I hold my breath, waiting to hear what Snow thought of my audition. Not like it matters; I was the only person to audition for Juliet. I most likely would have gotten it anyway. 

“It was really good. He was really good.” 

I let out a tiny gasp. He thought I was good. 

Then he tells her that I stared at him. Well shit. Time to bust in. 

“Penelope,” I nod as I walk in, dropping my bag into my desk chair. I like Penelope alright. She provides somewhat friendly competition for top of the class, and she has truly interesting things to say in our classes. Her hair can sometimes be distracting, as she dyes it a new and interesting color rather often, but that’s nothing to hold against her. 

She smiles pleasantly. “Hi Baz. How was the audition? Simon told me you auditioned for Juliet?”

Cutting right to the chase, aren’t you, Bunce? “Yeah, I did. It was good. Miss Possibelf seemed to think I did alright. Of course, I was the only bloke to audition for Juliet. Imagine that.” 

“Imagine that,” she repeats, grinning slyly. Conspiratorially. 

**Penny**

Yes, imagine that. Baz is the only one to audition for Juliet when he knows Simon is sure to be Romeo. I’m sure he didn’t mean to be the only person auditioning, but Baz meant to steal the role of Juliet. I know this because it is no secret to anyone but Simon that Baz is hopelessly in love with him. 

I don’t tell Simon. And I won’t tell him. I won’t help Baz, either. They need to figure this thing out on their own. But I will have fun watching. I might even go paint sets with them, just to watch. 

“When do cast lists go up?” I ask.

**Simon**

When do cast lists go up? Probably in a week or so. That’s how long Miss Possibelf usually waits to put them up. She’s told me before that they usually have a pretty good idea of who will get each main role straight after auditions. It just takes a while to cast side roles and extras. 

“Probably next week sometime,” I respond. “It usually takes a while to cast the extras. It’ll be next Thursday, most likely.” 

“Thursday? That seems like too long,” Penny scoffs.


	3. Wednesday, November 25, 2015

**Baz**

Snow was wrong, of course.

He’s the first out of bed Wednesday morning, as usual. And also as usual, he doesn’t bother trying to be quiet. He doesn’t care if he wakes me up. Which he does. Obviously. I smell his hospital-scented soap as he breezes past my bed, probably without a shirt. Sometimes he decides that it’s beneath him to take a shirt to the bathroom when he gets dressed in the morning. Or something like that. We’ve never dressed in front of each other. I think he was always afraid I’d take pictures to throw up all over the school or something. And I might’ve taken pictures in our fifth or sixth year. But not to show anyone.

I don’t dare open my eyes until he leaves the room. Living with Simon Snow is torturous enough without having to watch him parade around half-naked. 

I trail down to breakfast a bit later, after getting dressed and pulling my hair back into a messy bun. It really is getting too long. But my father hates it. So I’m keeping it. When I arrive in the dining hall, a crowd of boys is milling around at the back, gathered around two sheets of paper on the wall. The cast list. 

I ignore it. 

Of course I do. I was the only person to audition for Juliet. I know that my name is on that list. And it's easier and better for my overall health if I take the opportunity every boy in Watford has given me to get breakfast from the nearly empty serving line. There are scones, toast, marmalade, and butter on all the tables already, so I get a helping of bacon and make my way to my usual spot with Dev and Niall.

Looking over to Snow's usual table, I see Penelope waiting, tapping her fingers on the table. It would appear Simon is in the throng. Naturally. 

If what I've been hearing from disappointed fourth years is to be believed, Simon Snow was cast as Romeo. And I am to be his Juliet. He's probably fuming.

**Simon**

I want to be angrier than I am that Baz was cast as Juliet. He was good. Really good. If I could be sure he wasn't up to something, I would almost be glad to work with someone as talented as he seemed to be in his audition. But he's up to something. I know it.

"Congrats, Romeo," Penny says, pushing a plate of scones to me as I sit down. "Is Baz to be fair Juliet?"

"Not so fair," I groan. "But yeah. Baz is Juliet. Rhys gets to be Friar Laurence. I think Garrett is going to be Nurse? I dunno. I zoned out after seeing Baz's name up there."

"Why?" Penny laughs, taking a bite out of a piece of her toast.

"He was great in his audition. But..." I'm gonna have to snog Baz.

"But what, Simon? Use your words."

"He's going to have to snog me," a voice says loudly from behind me. Baz. Again. Why can he not leave me alone?

"Go away, Baz," I groan, running a hand through my hair. I was in such a hurry to get to breakfast this morning that I didn't comb it or anything.

"Wherefore art thou Romeo?" I hear him sneer before he no doubt saunters off. I could kill him.

Penny snickers into her tea.

**Baz**

What must it be like to have Simon Snow for a brother? I've no idea, but if it's anything like living with him at Watford, Penelope Bunce should be sainted. When I return to our room after classes and supper, there are papers strewn all over the floor, with pens and highlighters scattered about on top. There are some papers that are stapled, some that are paper clipped, and plenty more that are loose. There are some with underlining, some with a few highlights, and some with nearly the entire page highlighted in different colors. Simon is sitting in the middle of all of it, blue highlighter and red ink smeared on his nose. It must be script day.

"Script day, Snow?"

"Scripts go out first day of table reads. You'd have known that if you'd bothered to look at the cast list," he sighs.

Is that all I'm going to get? I can't even get to my bed for all the mess.

"So what are you doing, then?"

He groans and looks back at me, his blue eyes betraying his frustration. "If you must know, I'm researching. Miss Possibelf wanted me to write a paper on the theory that Shakespeare ripped off most of his plays from Marlowe. It’s part of the course equivalency that the play covers. If I write papers every now and then, and perform well in the play, it counts as a class.” 

I didn’t know that. 

“I see. Carry on.”

I turn to leave, maybe go to the library. When Snow gets like this, it’s impossible to get anything done in the room. Including sleep. There was one time in our sixth year that he got so into writing a paper that I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep in our room ever again. He even had my bed covered in papers by the time he finished it. 

I stopped being irked by it years ago. Probably around the same time I realized I'm in love with the idiot.

"Wait, Baz," Snow calls as if just realizing I exist.

He stands and clenches a hand in his curls as I turn to face him. He's red, flustered, like he's been thinking too hard.

"I just wanted to say," he starts, then pauses. This isn't a famous Snow bluster. He seems like he's working up courage more than anything. "I just wanted to say congratulations on getting Juliet. And your audition was really good."

Well fuck me.

**Simon**

Baz stares at me like I've grown an extra head. I only told him congrats because he deserves it. He did well. Doesn't mean I'm comfortable with it. I still think he's up to something. But I can recognize that he took a lot of time memorizing and rehearsing the monologue he gave.

"Thank you," he finally says. It's like he's never said thank you for anything in his life. Which, I mean, he might not. Pitches are notoriously entitled bastards if Mum is right about them. She says that the Pitches expect the world to be handed to them on a silver platter. Preferably with a side of filet mignon.

“Erm, yeah. Of course,” I mutter. My feet seem particularly interesting. “Table reads start Monday at four. We go for an hour, three days a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.” 

Baz frowns. “But that’s during tea.” 

I choke down a laugh. Of all the things to object to, table reads during tea seem like the most Baz objection. “Yeah, but it’s only table reads that get scheduled then. After break, rehearsals will be after supper.”

He sighs and nods. “That’s better.”

I think this might be the most we’ve ever talked without threatening to kill each other. It feels weird. Not in a bad way. Not necessarily. It’s just weird. I don’t know how to talk to Baz. It’s not like we get a “Talking to Your Roommate/Archenemy 101” pamphlet when we move in. I’ve asked Mum, who is the headmistress of Watford in her spare time, loads of times if I could move out. But being roommates at Watford is sacred. You and your roommate are supposed to look out for each other. Like brothers. Or sisters, if you’re girls. Or whatever. Siblings. You’re supposed to look out for each other like siblings. Your roommate at Watford is supposed to know you as well as you know yourself. 

Of course, it doesn’t always work out that way. Penny hates her roommate. She’s even asked Mum to switch. She told us both no. And then scolded us, because “Honestly you two! If I can’t let anyone else change rooms, I certainly can’t let you two. You’re my children. I can’t play favorites.” 

Anyway, as a result of all of this, I never learned how to talk to Baz. We have nothing in common, as far as I can tell. And he hates me, as far as I can tell. 

I move my mess of papers away from his bed and start organizing them. There isn’t much more I can do on this essay tonight. I’m waiting for a few books to come in before I can do any more. So there isn’t really any point in keeping Baz from his bed and giving him any reason to try to kill me or something.

**Baz**

I wonder if this is a peace offering. Simon is cleaning up his mess without me saying anything and he even told me that my audition was good. Is it my birthday? Or maybe Christmas? Or is this the magic of co-starring in the play? Whatever it is, I could get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm so happy to see so much positive response to this fic! It actually all came out of an idea that my fiancee had to base a story around Sam's storyline in _Love Actually_ , in which Baz is Sam and instead of learning to play the drums he auditions for the play in order to impress Simon. So this fic was born. 
> 
> I'm putting these notes down here because it is Christmas Eve and I've caught up to what I have written by posting this "Day". I'll try to work on it tomorrow, but I doubt I'll have much of anything to post for the next couple of days unless I write bonus snippets. Which is entirely possible. 
> 
> Anyway, Merry Christmas my fellow Snowflakes!


	4. Monday, November 30, 2015

**Baz**

Monday classes go by like a thick syrup in the dead of winter. It makes me wish that I could cast a spell to speed up time. Or step outside of it for a bit. Because, while the day seems to creep by at a snail’s pace, it picks up and moves at lightning speed during my last class of the day. And while I felt anxious this morning, as I watch the clock in Political Science creep closer to 3:50, I feel dread settle in my stomach like a lead balloon. 

I don’t know why I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be. I have no reason to be. Other than the fact that I’m going into this an outsider. All of the boys in that room will have been there for at least a few years. They’re a closed group. And Simon Snow is their ringleader. 

When we’re released from class, I don’t have time to go drop my books off, so I take them with me to the theater. Every step that takes me closer makes my stomach writhe, makes me feel like puking. I’ve never been this nervous before in my life. It’s awful. I feel a surge of respect for anyone with an anxiety disorder. 

I get to the theater with three minutes to spare and stand in front of the door, my hands shaking. I can hear loud conversation happening on the other side. It’s likely the younger bunch catching up. They tend to be the loudest in any club. Then I hear footsteps behind me, and I straighten. Whoever it is won’t know that I’m standing here like a frightened kitten. 

“Are you going inside, or are you going to stand there until we’re both late?” Snow. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Snow,” I snap back. “I just got here.” And it’s true. I did, technically, just get here. I just stood here momentarily letting my nerves get the better of me. 

To prove my point, I push the door open and enter the theater, not bothering to hold the door for Snow. 

**Simon**

Baz is nervous. I’ve never seen him nervous, so it’s an interesting sight. He’s shaking. His hands are shaking. And his head is lower than usual, his shoulders higher. I follow him in, but hang back to watch him join the group. They accept him readily. There are “Hello!”s and “Congratulations!” all around, with plenty of hand shaking and back clapping. Baz looks completely perplexed. His eyes are wide as he shakes hands and says “Thank you” to at least eight different people. There's something satisfying about it. His unease. Finally I have him out of his element.

And then someone spots me. 

“Simon!” they call, waving. I can’t tell who it is. Maybe Gareth. But the table is obscuring him, so I can't tell if he has on that ridiculous belt buckle. "Alright, mate?"

"Alright," I call back, making my way down toward the stage. "You?"

"Bloody brilliant since everybody's here!" It is Gareth. The fourth year who had been sitting in front of him jumped up when I responded. Bloody belt buckle. He says it's a family heirloom that gets passed down to the oldest son in the family when he gets into Watford. It is an old belt buckle. But nobody believes that it's a family heirloom. Mostly it's just obnoxious. 

"Are we all here now, gentlemen?" Miss Possibelf says, walking onto the stage. She spots me and Baz and nods. "Good. Let's begin then! On the stage are copies of your scripts. They have your names on them, so take a moment to locate your own script. Then have a seat in the middle section and we'll begin."

We all shuffle forward and gather around the scripts on the stage. A fifth year, who I think is playing a Capulet, takes up the task of handing out scripts. He calls out a name, then hands it back, letting us pass the bound script back to its owner.

"Baz Pitch!" he calls, handing back a script. Baz takes it when it gets to him, looking at it like he can’t believe it’s real. 

My script gets handed back to me and I take a seat near the aisle in the second row. Mine is one of the last scripts handed out, so just about everyone else is seated already. Baz sits a few seats to my right in the front row. I think it was closest to where he was when he got his script. He flips through it cautiously. Maybe reverently? I can’t tell which, but he flips through the pages, poring over them like there’s going to be a test. Everyone else is flipping through their scripts, waiting for Miss Possibelf to come back, so I watch Baz. He spends more time on pages where he has lines, like he’s only skimming the rest. 

Then he looks up, and I look away to avoid him seeing me. Miss Possibelf stands on the stage in front of us, dressed in a Victorian-era replica dress. Of course she would.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, and welcome to our first meeting of the play season,” she greets us, folding her hands together in front of her. “We have a lot of work to do before we open in January. However, we will not start this meeting. We have several new faces joining the cast this year, so we will take this time to introduce ourselves and get to know each other better.” She turns to me, smiling pleasantly. “Simon, since you are our Romeo, why don’t you start us off?” 

I nod. “Sure, Miss Possibelf.” 

I stand up, placing my script on my seat. “Hi everyone, I’m Simon Snow. Like Miss Possibelf said, I’ll be playing Romeo. I am an eighth year this year, and this will make my sixth year in the theater department. I like pina coladas and long walks on the beach, and my ideal date is April 25th because it’s not too hot, not too cold; all you need is a light jacket. I look forward to working with you all.”

I sit down to howling laughter and applause. Miss Possibelf frowns at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I’ve introduced myself like that for the past three years. She laughed the first time. It was unexpected and cheeky. Now, she’s come to expect it. But it’s not any less cheeky. 

Rhys and Gareth introduce themselves next, then a seventh year I’ve never met named Ravi. I’ve seen him around with Agatha since we broke up last year, though. I think they might be dating. He seems like a nice enough bloke, confident. But you have to be in this bunch. 

After Ravi, a few third, fourth, and fifth years go. Then it’s Baz’s turn. 

“Hello, everyone. I’m Baz, eighth year, and I’m playing Juliet.” 

He gets the most applause. Partly because it’s his first time in the play and he’s gotten a lead role. But mostly it’s because he took the role that no one else wanted. I join in, reclining in my seat. There are no enemies in the theater. It’s one of Miss Possibelf’s rules. So when he looks over at me, bewildered, I nod once to let him know it’s genuine. He’s like a lost child. It’s almost endearing. Almost. I still think he’s up to something. And as soon as he gets his bearings, he’ll be back to his usual plotting self. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts. 

**Baz**

I don’t expect the welcome that I get. I realize that it’s because I took Juliet. Nobody else wanted it. Nobody else wanted to kiss a bloke on stage. Not that I want to kiss a bloke on stage. But I do want to kiss Simon. And I’ll do it on stage if that’s what it takes. Oh my father will be livid. He probably won’t even come to the performance. But Fiona will. She’s already promised me she will. And she promised to make sure Daphne doesn’t bring Mordelia. I don’t want her watching me kiss Simon Snow on stage. 

We sit around and clap politely for an hour as everyone introduces themselves. No one quite tops Simon’s introduction. I didn’t expect they would. He’s the ringleader, the most over-the-top of the bunch. He’s in his element. And I’ve never been more attracted to him than I am now, watching him interact with his troop. He seems like an older brother to some of the younger ones. Ruffling their hair when they tell him something exciting. Like they finally asked the girl they like out or they got an A on a History exam. And he gives them his most winning smile. The “I’m proud of you” smile.

It’s maddening. 

I slip out after Miss Possibelf dismisses us, exiting through the side door as quietly as I can. I have to get away from him before I do something stupid. 

Instead of going back to our room, I go to the catacombs, lighting a torch with a silver lighter I keep in my back pocket so that I’m not fumbling around aimlessly in the dark. I wouldn’t be fumbling around aimlessly. I’ve been down here so often that I would know my way around if I were concussed. It’s just easier to get about with a bit of light. 

As I make my way through the maze of the catacombs, I note absently, for the hundredth time, how many bloody rats there are down here. Watford is infested with them. And no matter how many traps are set, they just keep popping up. Honestly, they need to lock a werewolf up down here on the full moon and let him clean them up. Or something like that. But then I reach my mother’s tomb and the rats no longer matter. 

I settle in, sitting against the wall across from her stone. I sit for a while without talking, deciding what to say. My torch burns out at some point, and I don’t have it in me to find another one to light. I can make it out without one, and I’m not scared of the dark. I used to be. Directly after Mother died. I thought they would come back and get me, too. But Father wouldn’t let me leave the light on in my room after two months, and I got used to it again. Those first few nights back in the dark were the worst. I cried. A lot. It was awful. But I realized that whoever it was who killed Mother wasn’t coming back for me. There were no monsters in my closet or under my enormous bed, and I was as safe as I would ever be in my family’s home. 

I sigh. 

“Today has been awful, Mother. I auditioned for this stupid play just to impress a boy. Because that’s what he is, a boy. Simon is a boy who thinks he’s king of bloody everything and I hate that I’m so stupid around him. I’m playing Juliet, mother. I don’t know if you would have hated it as much as Father is going to, but I hope not. I’d like for one of my parents to have been happy for me. Proud of me.” 

I stop, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks. I don’t want to cry. Not now. It’s too early in the evening. Someone will notice. 

“I almost puked, Mother. Going to our first meeting tonight. I was so nervous, I almost puked. It was terrible. And then Snow showed up. And I felt like I couldn’t. Because if I threw up, it would show him that I was weak. And I’m not. I’m not weak. And I’m not going to let a bit of stage fright keep me from knocking Simon Snow off his feet.” 

I pause again, thinking. I’m more talking to myself out loud than to her, but that’s how these visits usually go. I sit and pour my guts out while the rats scuttle around in the darkness all around. It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t help, though. 

“I miss you, Mother. Every day. And I love you. And I’m sorry.” 

**Simon**

It’s after supper before Baz finally shows up in our room, smelling like dust and rat shit. There are cobwebs in his hair and he looks paler than a ghost. He’s been to visit his mother. I’m already in bed, playing a game on my phone, so I don’t say anything when he comes in. He just gets clothes and a towel from his closet and goes to shower. 

By the time he gets out, I’ve put my phone away and am trying to get to sleep. But I can’t stop thinking about today’s meeting. There are no enemies in the theater. And Baz wasn’t expecting it. He wasn’t expecting the guys to welcome him in. It caught him off guard. 

Baz. Of all the people in all of Watford, why did he have to be the one to play Juliet? We’ve been at each other’s throats since we got to Watford. He pushed me down a flight of stairs once. So why, if he knew that I was going to play Romeo, did he audition for Juliet? I hope it isn’t something his aunt Fiona put him up to. Or a bet he lost. Because this play means so much. It’s six years of work. It’s two years in the chorus, two as side characters, and another one of lead culminating in _the_ role. Romeo. And he doesn’t get to fuck it up just because he lost a bet. 

**Baz**

I think Simon is asleep when I finally settle in. He’s curled in on himself, as usual, but he’s too still. Maybe he’s trying to get to sleep. Or maybe he’s pretending so that I won’t say anything to him. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m too exhausted to pick a fight. 

My bones groan with happiness as I settle into my lumpy, goose feather mattress. It was a long day. It was a long day full of anxiety and I hope I never have to experience anything like it again. I roll over, facing Simon. With the bathroom light off, I can’t see him, so i know he can’t see me. But I stare into the space he occupies anyway. Simon. Simon bloody Snow. He probably thinks that I’m doing this to spite him, that I auditioned for Juliet to fuck everything up for him. And if this had been sixth year, I might have. But it’s our last year at Watford and I have as much to lose as he does from this venture. The only comfort I have is knowing that for five days, I’ll get to kiss Simon Snow as much as I could ever hope. 

I fall asleep imagining the feeling of his lips on mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I had more time and a lot more to say than I expected to this evening(/morning). I'd like to keep updating this daily, but I have a road trip to make on Tuesday, so I won't have time to write then. And after that, I'll be with my fiancee's family, so I don't know if I'll have as much time to write as I have these past few days. So, I'll update as frequently as I can until Tuesday, and then we'll play it by ear from there. I hope that everyone reading this has as much fun as I have writing it, and I hope that you all have has a merry Christmas and a happy holiday season.


	5. Wednesday, December 2, 2015

**Wednesday, December 2, 2015  
Penny**

Baz and Simon are being stupid. I mean, they’re usually being stupid for some reason or another, but this takes the cake. They’re co-starring in this play, they have to practice together and they have to perform together, but Simon is refusing to run lines with Baz. Not that Baz has asked to run lines together. When I sat down at breakfast this morning, Simon just said, “I’m not running lines with Baz.” 

I’m sure Baz did something to provoke it at their meeting last night. Well, he probably did something, anyway. Simon’s rants about Baz are usually provoked by something Baz does. Which means that Simon and Baz are both being stupid. 

“But Simon, you are living with your co-star. You are living with Juliet. Why do you have to run lines with me? What did Baz do?” 

“Baz has done everything. And he’s plotting something, Penny,” Simon says as he takes a bite out of a sour cherry scone. For some reason, even though Mum cooks them for him all the time, Simon prefers Watford’s scones. Mum’s even thought about asking Cook Pritchard for her recipe just to get Simon to like her scones. 

I groan, “But Simon, we don’t know he’s plotting something. He could just really want to play Juliet. Have you considered that?”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “But it doesn’t make sense. Why would Baz just really want to play Juliet? He’s never been interested in the play before now. And he always does everything with the express purpose of fucking me over. Why should Juliet be any different?”

“Because, Simon, Baz hasn’t done anything just to spite you in years! Not since fifth year! And he seems like he’s trying really hard!” I look over at Baz’s table and he’s completely ignoring Dev and Niall to read his script. He sat like that yesterday, too. At breakfast and supper. He just sat there reading his script. Like it was a particularly interesting book. 

“Will you just run lines with me, Penny? Please?”

I sigh. I think I roll my eyes, too. “Yes, Simon. I’ll run lines with you. I always do. But I’m not kissing you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he says, almost laughing. 

**Baz**

Snow and I share virtually all of our classes. This includes the language classes that Snow probably shouldn’t be in but is because they are required at Watford. Like Greek and Latin. Snow is absolute shit in Greek and Latin. They’re dead languages, so we don’t actually speak them, but Snow is shit at them all the same. I didn’t know it was possible to be as shit at them as Snow is. 

My mother always insisted that I practice my languages at home. Always. I was forever practicing. And it’s paid off. I’m nearly fluent, which makes at least those two classes very easy. I don’t even really need to pay attention in class. So instead of paying attention in Greek, I sit near the back and watch Snow. 

His ridiculous curls fall in his face as he leans over his desk, scrawling notes as fast as he can. He could simply type them. We’re allowed to take notes on our laptops. But he chooses, instead, to scrawl all of his notes in an old notebook. I’m fairly certain it contains all of his notes from all eight years of Greek he’s taken at Watford. How he hasn’t run out of pages yet is beyond me. But he hasn’t. And even though the pages are stiff and yellowed, he still scrawls every note he takes in that notebook. 

He has a similar notebook that he carries around during play season. I didn’t know why before last Wednesday, but I get it now. He writes papers for Miss Possibelf in it. He has it with him today. I saw him pack it up this morning as I went into the bathroom to change. His paper must be finished.

We’re released from Greek with only a short translation assignment and I tail Snow to History. We share Greek, Latin, History, Political Science, and a few other classes. We’ve never walked together. Our relationship has always been too hostile for that. But I do often follow him to class. Hate to see him go, but love to watch him leave, right? 

Classes move at a normal pace today. And when we finish History and Political Science, I don’t feel like throwing up on the way to the theater. Instead, I make my way across the lawn confidently. I have nothing to be nervous about this time. I’m actually looking forward to starting table reads.

“Alright gentlemen,” Miss Possibelf says as we all get settled. “We have a lot of work to do. We have exactly seven meetings to do a dry read-through of the entire play. Now, Of those seven meetings, you will only have to attend six. Next Monday will be chorus, extras, and side characters only. Next Wednesday will be lead characters only. This doesn’t mean that I don’t want you spending our usual hour rehearsing. Please plan accordingly.”

Her announcement means, I’m presuming, that we won’t go in order with our reads. I turn to ask the person to my right if we were supposed to go in order with these things to see that it’s Simon sitting there. He grins. 

“Yeah, you’re typically supposed to go in order. But Miss Possibelf does things how she wants. And it gives us a day off, so we don’t complain.” 

“I see,” I mutter, looking away from his brilliant grin. he’s like a different person in the theater. He acts as though there’s no history between us at all. Like we haven’t been enemies since our first day at Watford. 

He then sighs and says, “There are no enemies in the theater. It’s Miss Possibelf’s rule. Basically her only rule. So as long as we’re in the theater, we’re on truce.” 

“Truce,” I test out the word. It’s not one I ever imagined applying to my relationship with Snow. It's strange, heavy. I think I quite like it.

**Simon**

Baz seems surprised when I tell him that the theater is a neutral zone, but he settled into it pretty quickly. He even seems to like it. Like he's tired of being at each other's throats ask the time. I could sympathize with that if it were true. But it's not. It can't be. Baz is a villain. He likes being at each other's throats. He gets some sort of sick pleasure from it. I dunno what sort, but it's true.

Miss Possibelf starts us off at the beginning, with Ravi reading the prologue. Then Sampson and Gregory have their time. I sit quietly, watching Baz follow song in his script. He looks like he should be taking notes with how intently he's following along.

He looks up when I start to read.

**Baz**

Simon Snow may be shit in Greek and Latin, but he is a genius in the theater. I suppose it's easier for him to deliver words when they aren't his own. 

“No, coz, I rather weep,” the seventh year playing Benvolio reads. It’s dry, no feeling. I suppose it’ll get feeling with practice. 

“Good heart, at what?” Snow responds and it’s like he’s having a conversation. A one-sided conversation, but a conversation nonetheless. 

“At thy good heart’s oppression.”

“Why such is love’s transgression.” 

He continues on and I almost want to weep at how bloody brilliant it already sounds. He’s been running lines with Penelope, I’d bet. I never see him doing it, but I have no doubt that he’s thrown himself into it face-first. That’s what they’re good at, the Bunce siblings. They start working on something and they don’t stop until either they’ve finished or they’ve gotten themselves in trouble. And even then they don’t stop sometimes. 

Honestly, I don’t know how the two of them are still here. It’s probably got to do with their mother being headmistress. If my mother were still alive and headmistress, they’d be gone for sure. They likely wouldn’t have made it past first year. But Professor Bunce has a soft spot for her children. As most mothers do. 

I keep sitting there, waiting to get to a scene where I’ll read, but we never get to one. In fact, Miss Possibelf releases us after Act II, Scene I. I’d hoped to get to do the confession dialogues, to get them out of the way. But we’re apparently “working up to that.”

“Gentlemen, thank you for all your hard work today,” Miss Possibelf says as we’re packing our things. “Please continue to practice reading your lines. You need to be able to properly enunciate, even at this stage. No stumbling over words. I’ll see you all again on Friday.” 

**Penny**

Simon and Baz storm into the room one after the other, just as I’m getting to the good part of my book. It startles me so badly that I think I actually jump into the air from Simon’s bed. 

“What the bloody hell, you two?” I yell, snapping my book closed. 

“Us? What about you?” Baz snaps, throwing his bag on his bed. “You aren’t supposed to be here.” 

“I can be here if I want.”

“If someone is here with you.”

“I told her to wait for me, Baz. I didn’t expect her to wait here,” Simon says, shooting me a dirty look. 

“I figured it’d be easiest to wait for you somewhere I knew you’d come,” I explain, tipping my book back open. Honestly, what’s gotten into the two of them? You’d think they were having a lover’s snit. Are they having a lover’s snit? An interesting thought. 

Baz huffs and stalks into the bathroom. I can hear him slamming things around as soon as the door locks. What in the world is going on? I ask Simon. 

“We got into a bit of a row after rehearsal today,” Simon groans. “Don’t worry about it, Penny.” 

“What about?” 

“Didn’t I just say not to worry about it?” 

“Well, yeah, but since when do I ever not worry about it when you get into ‘a bit of a row’ with anyone?” I reply. Probably cheekily. “If you’d said that first year, it would have meant that one of you was bleeding.”

**Simon**

I groan. “We’ll talk about it later, okay? Right now I just want to get out of here. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Did Mum leave you the car?” 

Penny nods. “Yeah. But only so that we could take it to get the tires changed after class tomorrow. She doesn’t want us driving it other than that.” 

“I don’t care. Let’s go somewhere. I need to get away from Watford.” 

“But Simon - “

“Penny, _please_.” I’m pleading now. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish Penny would just _understand_ that I _need_ to be _away_ right now. That I need to get out. Go away. Far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this chapter is so short, you guys. I got stumped on it and then I had an idea. So the next chapter is going to be a bit longer.


	6. Thursday, December 3, 2015

**Baz**

When I got out of the bathroom last night, Simon and Penelope were gone. I’d no idea where they’d got to and I didn’t particularly care. It was easier to deal with how angry I was without the object of my anger being in the room. It would’ve just made it fester, not being able to get it out with Simon in the room. God. I hate him sometimes. 

I only asked if he wanted to run lines. And he just went off. Like an H-bomb. Yelling about how I’m obviously up to something because I auditioned for Juliet. And accused me of threatening anyone else who would’ve auditioned so that I could get the part without competition. Like I would’ve lost the part to anyone who would’ve gone against me. And I was insulted that he would even suggest it. I told him so. Because how dare he insinuate that I would do such a thing. It’s low and dirty, even for me. 

I didn’t actually mind Penelope waiting for him in our room. I did when she first started doing it. It was sometime in our second year, when she realized that I wasn’t going to flay her alive for it. Not that I could. Her mother was the headmistress. And I would’ve been disowned if I’d gotten kicked out of Watford. Which I would’ve done if I’d flayed the headmistress’s daughter alive. And Penelope’s hung out in our room enough times that I’ve come to expect it. It wouldn’t be a Wednesday if she wasn’t in our room waiting for Simon. 

No, I was just pissed at him. For being Simon Snow.

I don’t think I’ll go to rehearsal Friday if Snow’s back. I could tell Miss Possibelf that I’m sick. They don’t actually need be at the table reads. It’s really just a formality. To test our chemistry and to familiarize us with our lines. But I’ve been doing nothing but reading my script. After doing my school work, of course. I could manage missing one day. 

It isn’t until I arrive in the dining hall for breakfast and see their table empty that I realize Simon and Penelope are gone. 

“Mr. Pitch,” I hear from behind me before I can take a step further. 

I turn around and see the headmistress standing in front of me. She has her dark hair in a messy bun and wears a cardigan with her deep blue pantsuit rather than a blazer. Penelope looks just like her. 

“Yes, ma’am?” 

She sighs, “I wonder if I could have a word?” 

It’s less a question than a command, but I nod and follow her out of the hall. 

“Mr. Pitch, I know that you aren’t close, but I hoped you would have some idea as to where my children are,” she says, turning to look directly at me. Her dark eyes are soft, but her gaze manages to be piercing. I don’t see how those two could ever disobey her with that glare. I’d be scared out of my wits. 

“No, ma’am. I have no idea where they are.” I pause. I don’t want to tell her about the fight. But I feel like I can’t lie under that glare. “Simon and I fought last night after rehearsal. When I got back to the room after, they were gone. When I came down to breakfast I saw that they still weren’t here. I’ve no idea where they’ve gone.” 

Her glare breaks and she curses. “Damn those two. I’m never leaving the car with Penelope or Simon again.” 

She takes a breath and looks back at me. “Thank you, Mr. Pitch. I appreciate your honesty. If you see them, will you tell them that they are to report to me at once?” 

I nod. “Yes, ma’am, I will.” 

She purses her lips. “Thank you. Please, go eat.” 

**Penny**

It turns out that “Away. Far away.” is Cardiff. I let Simon drive, which was a terrible mistake. He would have gone to bloody Scotland if I hadn’t told him I would jump out of the car and walk back to Watford. We stopped and got the tires changed before leaving London so that Mum couldn’t get upset at us for driving to Wales on stripped tires. She’ll be upset enough that we drove to Wales in the first place, no need to get her upset about the tires, too. 

But getting the tires changed put us getting into Cardiff late. We had to spend the night in the car because we didn’t have the money to stay in a hotel. Which was fine. The car is roomy enough and old enough to be comfy. The seats are broken in well. And Simon let me sleep in the back seat while he took the driver’s seat. It wasn’t too cold a night for December, so the blankets we had in the back kept us warm enough. And the sunrise was beautiful over the water. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sunrise so beautiful. 

Simon cheered up after the sunrise. Maybe it was the air. The air near the water is always so calming. Whatever it was, he decided that we would take a _Torchwood_ tour of Cardiff. That was fun. And by the time we finished, classes were over and it was time to go back home. To Watford. We had pizza for lunch and pizza for supper and if I never see another pizza again, it’ll be too soon. 

I drive back, so Simon picks the music. I don’t even know what it is he listens to. Something American, I think. It’s poppy, catchy. I like it well enough. He seems generally happy until we cross back into England. He sings and taps his feet along to the beat. But then, when we cross over, he gets all dreary and mopey. 

“I know you don’t want to go back to your room, Simon,” I say, trying my best to look at him, “but you need to work out this mess with Baz.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t want to, Penny,” he sighs, pulling at his hair. It’s something he does when he’s nervous or upset, something he’s always done. “Baz is a git. And an arsehole. And he’s a sneaky, conniving weasel. It makes my stomach turn being on truce in the theater. I don’t want to be on truce. I want to throttle him.” 

**Simon**

“And why do you want me to make up with Baz, anyway?” 

Penny groans. “Because you and Baz aren’t actually enemies. Enemies aren’t a real thing. And if you and your roommate aren’t actually enemies, and you’re playing opposite him in the play, you might as well be nice to each other. I’m not saying friends, but civil at least.” 

“But why should I be if he’s not?” It’s childish, I know, but Baz has always been trying to do me in somehow. And even if there isn’t any evidence that I can show Mum, I know that if I had the evidence, she would let me change rooms. Or she would have if it weren’t my eighth year. 

“Because he _is_ , Simon! He has been since fifth year!” Penny cries, frustrated. “He hasn’t done a thing to you in two whole years, Simon. He’s goaded you sometimes, sure, but he hasn’t actually physically tried to do anything since we were fifteen.” 

I don’t respond. How can I? “Yeah he has, Penny, you just haven’t seen it and I haven’t seen it either but I know he’s doing it”? “Yeah he has, Penny, remember that time that something bad happened”? No. Instead, I turn to stare out the window. 

**Penny**

Simon falls asleep after I yell at him. I guess he didn’t sleep well last night after all. I just don’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s like Baz has encroached on his territory and now he has to get all defensive. It must be some sort of pride thing. Of course, I know why Baz has done all of this. I just can’t tell Simon. And I hate it! 

I would love to tell Simon, “Look, Baz is in love with you, you freak. He’s done all of it because he’s in love with you!” I would love to. But I can’t. They need to figure this out themselves. 

It’s fully dark when we finally make it back to Watford. Dad’s car is by the Weeping Tower when we get in, which means that Mum is in her office. Which means that Simon and I are in trouble. I nudge him awake. 

“Simon, Mum’s still here. And probably Dad, too. We’re in for it.” 

He groans. I don’t blame him. 

**Simon**

Before we go to Mum’s office, Penny and I head off to our rooms to change. I don’t want to go back to my room. I don’t want to risk running into Baz. But I go back anyway. Because it’ll be better to face Mum’s wrath in clean clothes. 

**Baz**

I’m in bed when Snow reappears. That is, I’m in bed reading. My script. Again. 

I looks like he’s in a rush when he bursts in. He makes a beeline for his closet and doesn’t bother to go to the bathroom to change. Well that’s new. 

“Hello, Snow,” I say, closing my script and looking anywhere but at him.

“I don’t have time, Baz,” he growls, pulling on his trousers. 

“Professor Bunce is looking for you. She asked me where you were this morning.” 

“I _don’t have time_ , Baz,” he snarls again. He’s pulling on a jumper, his red school jumper. Like wearing his uniform is going to help. 

“Of course you don’t,” I sigh. I don’t have time for this. I lay down and pull my sheets up to my chest, roll onto my side. The side facing away from Snow. 

“Not everything is about you, y’know,” Snow says pulling open the door. “You don’t always get the last word.” 

I don’t need it. 

**Penny**

I wait outside the Tower for Simon before going up to meet our doom. He runs up still buttoning his shirt, clearly irked and out of breath. He glares up at the light at the top of the tower. 

“Ready?” he grunts, tucking in his shirt. 

“As I’ll ever be,” I breathe. Mum and Dad are going to freak. We may never drive again. We’ll probably be grounded until after uni. And I guess that’s fine. At least Simon didn’t kill Baz. We would’ve been in a different kind of trouble then. 

And Mum’ll never trust us again. I think that’s the most disappointing part of all this. 

We get inside and take the elevator up in silence. Simon is fuming. So Baz must’ve been in their room. And he must’ve said something. But I guess that doesn’t matter right now. 

When the elevator door opens, Mum and Dad are waiting for us. They wave us into Mum’s office and follow us in. Dad sits in Mum’s chair. Mum sits on her desk. Simon and I each take a chair on the other side of the desk in front of Mum. 

I feel like I have to talk first. 

“Mum, I know this looks bad. But we got the tires changed first.” Stupid. 

Her shoulders fall. 

“You got the tires changed. That’s what you have to say for yourself? You got the bloody tires changed? Do you know how worried your father and I were, Penelope? Do you know how worried I was when I got here this morning and my car was gone? And you two weren’t at breakfast? I had to ask Basilton Pitch where you two were! And he didn’t even know!” 

Mum’s shouting. Dad lets her. And Simon just sits and takes it. 

“But you got the tires changed before you left! Where did you even go?”

“Cardiff,” Simon says, looking at his shoes. “And it was my fault, Mum. I got in a fight with Baz and convinced Penny to go with me. To take the car. She made sure we got the tires changed.”

Dad cracks. 

“What were you doing in Cardiff?” 

“We went on a tour, Dad,” I sighed. What we _did_ in Cardiff seems like the least important part of the story right now. 

“You got in a fight with Baz?” Mum asks, looking hard at Simon. 

“It was just an argument,” he clarifies. “About the play. It was stupid. But I got mad. And I talked Penny into going with me. That’s all.” 

She nods. “Alright.”

“Mitali,” Dad starts. 

“I said alright, Martin,” she snaps back, closing her eyes. “You’re both grounded until the end of term. At least. That means that you are not allowed to leave school grounds for anything unless I give you express permission. Do you understand?”

We both nod. I think we both expected that. 

“Car keys,” she demands, holding out her hand. I give them to her.

“Driving licenses. Both of you.” We give those, too. “You aren’t allowed to drive until your father and I can trust you again. Understood?” 

We nod. It’s fair. 

“And Simon,” she says, looking at him directly. “If I hear about you fighting with Baz again, I don’t care if you are my son. I will have to expel you.”

“But Mum!” I say, nearly jumping out of my seat. I stop when she holds up her hand. 

“No, Penny. Simon and I have discussed this before. He knows that he is walking on very thin ice. After the snake, he and Mr. Pitch both are. But I haven’t heard of Baz doing anything since then.” 

I can’t believe it. It’s Simon’s last year. It’s all of our last year. And Mum’s threatening to expel Simon for fighting with Baz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a lot more intense than I meant for it to. Mitali got the better of me. I won't have a chapter for you all tomorrow, as I'll be on the road all day. I'm hoping to be back Wednesday night, but it may be Thursday. Much love!


	7. Monday, December 7, 2015

**Baz**

I shouldn’t have skipped Friday. Tea time rolls around and I’m itching to go to the theater, to rehearse. Even if I don’t rehearse, I just want to sit there with the others, to be a part of their camaraderie. I can’t explain it, but since my mother died, that all I’ve ever wanted. To feel loved. Like I belong. 

She was the single most important person in my life, in my father’s life. When she died, it was like a hole was blown in a ship by a too-big cannon. It was like the Titanic sinking. Father forgot Christmas. I think he forgot _me_ for a while. Aunt Fiona brought me Christmas presents, came around every so often to check on us. But she was busy. 

I’d never felt so alone in my life. I’ve never felt so alone since. I lived with Mother at Watford before she died. She was the headmistress and had rooms in the Weeping Tower. I was surrounded by people constantly. But after Mother died I lived with Father at home. I had a nanny, Vera, but we weren’t exactly close. My father remarried. Daphne was nice enough to me, but she wasn’t Mother. I thought that sharing a room at Watford, having someone I could be in constant contact with would be good. It would give me the companionship that I’d craved since I left Watford. But I was given Simon Snow.

I wanted to like him. I wanted to be his friend. But I don’t think he was looking for friends. He had his sister, Penelope. She wasn’t looking for friends, either. They were inseparable. And I was excluded. 

I found Dev and Niall. Dev is my cousin. Niall was his friend from primary school. They were easy enough to...Win over? I don’t know what to call it. They were eager for someone to lead them. I was eager for someone to fill the void my mother left. They didn’t. Obviously. But they did provide company. Conversation. 

It wasn’t until second year that I began to feel something other than apathy for Simon. He and Penelope were in the room constantly. My studies were suffering because I preferred studying at my desk to studying in the library. I began to resent them. Penelope never seemed to work and she was my competition for top of the class. Simon didn’t seem to care. 

I suppose it was petty. To hate them for not studying. Actually, there’s no supposing to it. It was petty. But it was the distraction I needed. 

And it wasn’t until our fifth year that I started to crave something more. I rolled over one night, facing Simon’s bed, and a shaft of light fell over his face. His mouth was open slightly, the ridiculous mouth-breather, and I noticed a mole on his neck. In the moonlight, I counted four more on his face and neck. I became obsessed with counting them in the moonlight. I counted them until I could draw a map of every mole on every visible inch of his skin. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss them or burn them off. Such was my confusion surrounding Snow at the time. 

He thought that I was trying to do him in for some reason. Sabotage him. Maybe it was the snake. Maybe it was the time we got in a fight on the stairs and I got in a lucky punch. Fiona thought it was the most badass thing I’d ever done. I felt dirty. But for whatever reason, he thought that I was trying to keep him from doing well. Keep him from Agatha Wellbelove (though, if I’m being honest, I did try to keep the two of them separate). Keep him from graduating. But I wasn’t. I think I was trying, in my own way, to get closer to him. 

The play is my last ditch effort. The cast is a bonus. They are the best company I could have asked for aside from Simon Snow. They seem to genuinely enjoy my company. They welcomed me in with open arms, even though Snow didn’t. 

So I wish I hadn’t skipped Friday’s rehearsal. I’m craving the company that the _Romeo and Juliet_ cast provides and I won’t get to see them until Wednesday. Today is chorus and extras only. 

Instead of going to the theater, I go back to my room. My script is under my bed, where I thought I could leave it to get some school work done. I was wrong. 

When I climb the stairs and unlock the door, Penelope is there, running lines with Simon. She’s reading my lines. And for whatever reason, it infuriates me. 

“That’s fine, Snow,” I scoff, bending to pick up my script from the floor under my bed. “I didn’t want to run lines anyway. Thank you for asking.” I’m out of the room again before Penelope can protest, before Snow can process. I’m halfway down the stairs of our turret before he catches up to me. 

“Hey!” he calls behind me, trying to get me to stop. I don’t want to. I take another three stairs before his hand locks around my bicep. I yank my arm away. 

“You can’t just grab someone when you want their attention, Snow,” I spit, whirling around on the stair. For the first time, I’m looking up to him. Despite my anger, it makes my heart quicken. Who would have thought that this type of height difference could be this attractive? 

“I said hey,” he snarls, his face twisted. Honestly, he’ll give himself wrinkles. That would be a tragedy greater than any Shakespeare. 

“I ignored you,” I say. 

“What do you want from me?” he asks. “You got Juliet. Your plan to ruin my last play seems to be going along perfectly. The cast loves you. Miss Possibelf loves you. What’s your game? Do you want to steal them from me? Sabotage the show? Turn my friends against me? What? What do you want?” 

My mind short circuits. He thinks I’m going to sabotage him? I mean, he usually thinks I’m trying to sabotage him, but what part of me auditioning for the play, nailing the audition, obsessively reading my script, and even asking to run lines says “Hello, Snow, I’m here to wreck your last play at Watford”?

“You think I’m trying to ruin your play?” I find myself asking. “You think I’m trying to ruin your play?” I’m up the few stairs between us and standing over him before I realize that I’m moving. I grab a fistful of his shirt and use it to push him against the wall, pinning him with my arm across his chest. I feel fire in my veins, my heart threatens to pound out of my chest. 

“What part of all of this reads as me trying to ruin your play, Snow? The part where I memorized a monologue to audition for Juliet? Where I was the only person in that theater with the bollocks to audition for the bloody part? Where I read over my script every day? Where I asked you to run lines?” 

“I don’t know!” he says, struggling. 

“But you assumed anyway?” I say between clenched teeth. “You are absolutely the most conceited child I have ever met, Snow!” 

“What are you trying to do, then?” he asks, his face red. 

“I’m trying to star in a bloody play, Snow,” I sigh, releasing him. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I’m not going to ruin anything. In fact, I asked to run lines together so that I wouldn’t ruin the whole damn thing.” I think I’m trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to convince him at this point. Not that I’m not trying to ruin the play. I’m not. I’m trying to convince myself that I’m doing this for the play, not for Simon. Because if I believe it, I can make him believe it, too. 

**Simon**

I can’t believe what Baz is telling me. He isn’t trying to ruin the play. He isn’t trying to ruin anything. He just wants to be a part of the play? Just wants to star in it? Wants to run lines so that he doesn’t ruin it? What? 

**Baz**

Snow’s mouth is hanging open like a trapdoor that no one’s bothered to close. He really should learn to close his mouth. 

“Don’t look so shocked, Snow,” I spit. I want to bolt. I think. But I don’t. Instead, I walk up a few steps and sit. My heart is racing. I can hear it beating out a march in my ears. My skin is burning. I am fire. 

He shakes his head like he’s trying to shake water from his ear. “You just want to be in the play?”

“I didn’t know I needed your permission for that,” I sigh, my head in my hands. 

“No, it...That isn’t what I meant,” he says. “I just meant...I wish you would have said something before now.”

“Oh like you would have listened,” I snap. 

“I...probably wouldn’t have,” Snow admits. He sits on the step below mine. “But if you’ll swear to me that you aren’t trying to wreck the play-”

“What did I just-” I interrupt, at a roar, only to be interrupted.

“ _If you’ll swear to me that you aren’t trying to wreck the play_ , then I will run lines with you,” he finishes. 

I look straight at him and it’s like I’ve never seen him before in my life. It’s nearly magic. “You will?”

He nods. 

“I swear to you, Snow, I am not trying to ruin your play.” 

He holds his hand out to shake. I take it. 

“I look forward to working with you, Baz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! I'm sorry that I don't have much from Simon's POV this chapter. I found it really hard to write this from his perspective. I think mainly because this is a Baz-centric chapter. We'll have a Simon-centric chapter soon, I promise!


	8. Wednesday, December 9, 2015

**Simon**

I don’t know what I expected when I agreed to run lines with Baz. Maybe for it to make a bigger impact on our relationship? We didn’t practice Monday night. He disappeared after our confrontation. I went back into the room with Penny. 

“What in the world was that, Simon?” She jumped on me as soon as I closed the door behind me. 

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it,” I sighed, still in shock. 

She shook her head. “No secrets! We have a pact!” 

I had a hard time not rolling my eyes. “He, Baz, says that he isn’t going to ruin the play. That he had absolutely no intention of ruining the play.” 

She nodded. “Yeah?”

I did roll my eyes then. “Well, then he asked to run lines together. Sort of. It seemed really important to him, for some reason.” 

Penny raised an eyebrow. 

**Penny**

I knew exactly why it was so important for Baz to run lines. And it didn’t come as a shock that Baz finally said something to Simon. What did come as a shock was the way he did it. He fairly well exploded on Simon. Baz never explodes. He’s Mr. Cool. Where Simon is a bomb, Baz is an icy wind. He’ll cut you to the bone without losing his cool. But he exploded. I heard it from the room. 

When Simon came back, I thought I was going to burst. I think I did burst a bit. And when Baz didn’t come back, I thought he might have gone for good. But he was a breakfast the next morning, and he’s at breakfast today. He’s not going anywhere, it would seem. 

“So after all of that, he hasn’t said anything to you? At all?” I ask before taking a bite out of a piece of toast. 

Simon shakes his head. “No, he hasn’t. And I don’t get it. He just ran off. And he runs off every time I try to talk to him.” 

“How many times have you tried to talk to him?” This is all so fascinating, I feel like I need popcorn. Finally, things are starting to get interesting. 

**Simon**

I pull at my hair. How many times have I tried to talk to Baz? I don’t even know. But every time I try to talk to him, to find out when he wants to run lines, his ears turn red and he bolts. He acts like he doesn’t hear me. It’s like he’s angry. Or embarrassed. Except that Baz doesn’t get angry or embarrassed. Not openly. The more he’s threatened, the less ruffled he gets. So you can imagine that seeing him ruffled is freaking me out. 

“I don’t know, Penny. At least once every few hours.” 

She frowns at me. “Maybe he needs to take things slow? He did just unload a few months’ worth of frustrations on you.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” I concede. “I guess I’ll leave him be for now. Talk to him after rehearsal tonight.” 

"That sounds like a good idea."

And yeah, maybe it does. But it also sounds like a good way to get myself up a creek without a Juliet. I want to push Baz. But I don't want him to run. That would be even worse than not running lines together.

**Baz**

Snow is following me. He doesn't want me to know, but he's following me to the theater. Maybe to make sure that I'm going to rehearsal tonight? I don't know. But I find it particularly annoying tonight. I was planning on taking my time getting to the theater, but I can't. Not with him watching me.

Just to show him that I know he's there, when I get to the theater doors, I hold them open and wait until he shuffles past me into the building. Maybe that'll teach him to follow me. You would have thought that he would have learned his lesson fifth year after the catacombs debacle. A man has the right to visit his mother's tomb without his idiot roommate following him there. Even if that man is actually a disturbed fifteen-year-old and his idiot roommate has a valid reason to believe that he might be up to something.

There is a table onstage that the primary cast sits around. An actual table. When it's the whole cast, we sit in the audience seats for our reads. But I suppose when you only have a few actors, you can afford to put a table onstage for the table reads.

"Good evening gentlemen," Miss Possibelf greets us from the head of the table. "Tonight we will be going over the orchard scenes. I want you all to get ready for very long monologues."

There are scattered chuckles around the table.

She resumes, "Tonight we're going to do something that I don't normally do with these table reads. We're going to do them in chronological order. I'm also going to request that Mr. Snow and Mr. Pitch sit across the table from each other. So shuffle about, gentlemen. You two are good enough that I want you acting this." 

A weight settles in the pit of my stomach. And now I really don't want to be here.

Simon settles into the seat across from mine. His bronze curls seem extra loose today. They actually fall in his face. The stage lights set them on fire, so it looks like his face is framed in liquid flames. The lights wash out his eyes, though. They look grey, like a puddle of rainwater. The lights wash out his tawny skin, too. They must use heavy bronzer to give anyone a complexion under these lights. I can't imagine how ghastly I look under them.

Miss Possibelf announces that we'll be starting with Act II, Scene 1. It is mostly a dialogue between Benvolio and Mercutio. So, Simon and I both mentally kick back while they read their lines. When Miss Possibelf approves, she tells us to move on. Then we get to the most iconic scene in theater history.

"He jests at scars that never felt a wound," Simon says, his voice laced with bitterness and disgust. Then he looks up at me and my heart falters. Because he looks at me like he's looking at the sun. Like I'm the most radiant thing he's ever seen. Like looking at me hurts him, but he's unable to look away. Like I am the single most important thing in the universe.

"But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?  
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."

And I feel as though I could be the sun. I feel like I could be a burning ball of gas, lighting up the sky in day or night because I am so radiant that the moon reflects my light even when I am not seen. I feel like I could give life to every living thing on Earth. I feel hot from my skin to my core.

I must miss some of his speech, because the next thing I hear is:

"O, that I were a glove upon that hand,  
That I might touch that cheek!"

"Ay me!" I whisper, breathless. My heart is pounding in my ears and I feel flushed. I might not make it through this play.

**Simon**

Baz is redder than I've ever seen him before in my life. And I've lived with him for seven years. Is he sick or something? I continue:

"She speaks:  
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art  
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head  
As is a winged messenger of heaven  
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes  
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him  
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds  
And sails upon the bosom of the air."

This is one of my favorite scenes in this play. The imagery is fantastic and the innocence Romeo and Juliet convey through this exchange is beautiful. Yeah, the play takes a dark turn. But this is love's light wings. The soaring feeling of falling in love. You feel like a poet. Like singing. At least, that's what it felt like with Agatha at first. Before we grew apart. Broke it off.

Baz takes a deep breath before he starts his lines.

"O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?  
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;  
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,  
And I'll no longer be a Capulet."

These are probably the most famous lines of the play. And he does them well. He doesn't look at me because Juliet doesn't know that Romeo is in the orchard when she says these lines, but he looks like he might cry. Like he's experiencing the turmoil that Juliet feels. And I feel myself flushing.

I don't know why. I have no reason. But watching him perform is like watching a forest fire. He's good. He's so good that he's burning a hole in the atmosphere around the table. He's sucking up all the oxygen.

"'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;  
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.  
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,  
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part  
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!  
What's in a name? that which we call a rose  
By any other name would smell as sweet;  
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,  
Retain that dear perfection which he owes  
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,  
And for that name which is no part of thee  
Take all myself."

I jump in. Feeling the adrenaline of the performance taking over. I don't need to look at my script. I've had this scene memorized since I was fourteen when we went over it in Literature.

"I take thee at thy word:  
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;  
Henceforth I never will be Romeo."

**Baz**

Juliet is taken aback, so I am taken aback.

"What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night  
So stumblest on my counsel?"

I am exposed, naked. It doesn't matter that I am only acting a part, I am the most exposed I have ever been. My most honest feelings are on display. Before I began my part, there was movement around the table. People were whispering amongst themselves. Now they are silent as Simon and I exchange lines in a back-and-forth, shooting them at each other like spells. We go so fast, so earnestly, that when it is time for Nurse to call for Juliet, Gareth falters, forgets his line. The pause breaks the spell.

"Ahem," Miss Possibelf clears her throat. "I think this might be a good time to pause, gentlemen."

We haven't finished the scene.

As if reading my mind, Snow says, "But, Miss Possibelf, we haven't finished the scene."

She smiles, sagely. "I think that you boys are doing fine on your own. We are at time, and we signed a social contract obligating us to end on time."

She turns to me. "Mr. Pitch, would you mind if I had a word before you leave?"

Numbly, I shake my head. That was the most exhilarating experience I've ever had in my life. I felt like I was connecting with Simon Snow for the first time in my life. That I was seeing him and that he was seeing me. That we were seeing each other as we truly are. And I loved him more in that moment than I ever have in the seven years that I have known him.

I remain in my seat until everyone else leaves. Even Simon, who trails behind the crowd silently. Miss Possibelf looks at me like she's finally meeting the real me.

"I've heard that you are an excellent violinist, Mr. Pitch," she says, perching on the edge of the table.

I clear my throat. "I play, yes. But I would hesitate to call myself excellent."

"There is no room for modesty in the theater, Mr. Pitch," she says, smiling wryly. "I wonder if you would like to play a piece for the play. In the orchard scene."

I frown, my cheeks still hot. "I don't understand. There's no violin in _Romeo and Juliet_."

Her smile widens. "There are no stage directions, Mr. Pitch. Yes, there is no precedent for Juliet playing a violin in her bedroom window as Romeo speaks. But that doesn't mean that she can't play a violin in her window. Please, think about it."

I don't have to. "I would love to. Did you have a piece in mind?"

She shakes her head. "I would like for you to decide on a piece. If you are able to find a sixteenth century piece to convey the message of the play, that would be fine. But find something that speaks to you. Find one that screams 'Juliet' to you." 

"I can do that," I say, more to myself than to her. I look up into her unblinking gaze. It really can be unsettling. "I'll have one by the end of the break."

"Excellent."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this chapter took so long. Halfway through I lost Simon's voice. So I took a break with the other fic. And now I think I've found Simon again, so I'll be alternating the two fics. Turns out I really just needed to get the boys back into the theater.


	9. Friday, December 18, 2015

**Simon**

Baz is throwing things in a suitcase when I get to our room after classes. I haven't actually seen him outside of classes and rehearsals since our confrontation and I was starting to wonder if he even existed outside of classes and rehearsals. He looks up at me and his shoulders fall. 

"When do you and Penelope leave?" he asks. He's trying to make conversation? Like we haven't been giving each other the silent treatment for the past week? Okay, sure. We'll go with that. 

"Later this afternoon," I reply, pulling my own suitcase out. Then I decide better of it and pull out a duffel bag. It's one that Micah left with Penny the last time he came to visit. It's a nice bag, and smaller than my suitcase. Mum will appreciate that. "You headed out soon?" 

"As soon as I finish packing," he sighs. He's folding jumpers from his closet and stacking them neatly in the case. "My step-mother requested that I be home for supper." 

"I see," I say, sitting down on my bed. I don't want to pack. I don't want Baz to pack. I want to grab him by the shoulders, sit him down, and tell him that he's being a prick. That he needs to stop avoiding me and pretending like we never talked. And that we need to be rehearsing over the break. We need to be running lines together. 

"Listen, Snow," he says, putting down a rich green jumper and turning to look at me. "I think that we should start rehearsing together over the break." 

I wasn't expecting that. 

"Yeah, okay." 

"I think you should come to Hampshire."

I really wasn't expecting that. 

"For Christmas?" It's a stupid question. I realize it as soon as I ask it. But I can't take it back. Baz rolls his eyes at me. 

"No, not for Christmas. You have a family to have Christmas with," he snaps. "You should come over to run lines. Wednesday." 

"I think Agatha's coming over Wednesday. To bake cookies and things with Penny and me." Actually, she's coming over because Penny begged her to and we're going to bake cookies and watch Star Wars, but that's more information than Baz needs. 

"Tuesday, then," he says, and it isn't a question. 

"Yeah, alright. I can do Tuesday." He wants to meet in four days. I guess that's four days to memorize. 

"Good," Baz says. He goes back to folding clothes and putting them in his case. 

"If we're not going to meet for a few days, can I have your mobile number?" I ask carefully. It might be useful to have. Especially if I get lost on the way to his house.

He purses his lips before nodding and gesturing at me to give him my mobile. I hands out over and he puts in his number. He hands it can to me, still frowning. 

"Don't call me. And only text if it's important, got it?" He's dead serious. It's like he doesn't want anyone finding out that he gave me his number. 

I sigh, "Yeah, I got it. Do you want me to give you mine?"

He shakes his head. "I have it."

How in the world does he have my number? How long has he had it? Who gave it to him? Was it Penny? Or Mum? Or Agatha? I don't know. But I don't think I like that he already had my number.

"Alright, then," I sigh. 

**Baz**

I'm not going to tell Snow where I got his number. I'm not going to tell him that I snuck his mobile off his nightstand while he was asleep one night in fifth year and took it down. It's a horrible invasion of privacy and I won't admit to it. 

I'm nearly finished packing, but I don't want to leave just yet. For some reason, Simon seems disappointed that I'm leaving. And I can't imagine why. He hates me. And the only reason he agreed to any sort of truce is his potential expulsion. He only agreed to run lines after I swore to him that I wasn't planning on ruining the play. So what does he want from me?

"You were really good, y'know," he says quietly. "In rehearsal that night. Around the table."

I know I was good. I was brilliant. But he was better. 

"So were you," I reply. I won't tell him he was better. No need to stroke his enormous ego.

He gives his bag a sort of half smile. "It felt good, didn't it? It felt right."

It did. But what's bringing this on? He hasn't spoken to me outside of rehearsal. Mostly because I've made sure that I haven't been around for him to talk to. Partly because I was embarrassed. And I'll die before I admit it to anyone. Snow was courting me at that table. Me as Juliet, but me nonetheless. It was exhilarating. 

And afterward I felt like a black hole opened in my chest. It wasn't real. None of it. He was Romeo, professing his love for Juliet. Not Simon Snow professing his love for me. That's something that won't happen. Ever. 

"Yeah, it was pretty good," I admit. I'll give him that one small victory.

I close the lid to my luggage and fasten it. I'm finished packing. And I don't want to leave. 

"I'll see you Tuesday, yeah?" I ask, trying a scarf around my neck before slipping on my coat. 

Snow nods. "Yeah, Tuesday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I’m sorry this is so short. It’s not necessarily filler, but I needed something to move the plot along. And the next chapter may be a few days in the making because I’ll be traveling Saturday and Monday. So, if I get a chance to work on Sunday, I might have a chapter then. And I might have one tomorrow, I’m not sure yet. So. I’ll keep you updated.


	10. Bonus Content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, I feel bad about today’s chapter being so short and about it taking so long to post. So, I thought I would share some bonus content. (Lol, I actually have bonus content to share. That’s so weird.) Anyway, this is the Friday that I was talking about skipping between Simon and Penelope’s jaunt to Cardiff and the Monday that they don’t have rehearsal. (The one that I stopped writing and cut because it was feeling too forced.) Enjoy!

**Friday, December 4, 2015**

**Baz**

I ran into Miss Possibelf at lunch and let her know that I wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t make it to rehearsal this afternoon. She was disappointed, but when I told her that I’ve been reading over my script, and that I would continue reading over my script, she relaxed. Told me to feel better for Wednesday. Then she asked if Snow would be there this afternoon. To which I said, “I’m not sure, Miss Possibelf. I would assume so, but again I can’t be sure.”

Now I’m sitting on the edge of the moat, tossing bread to the ducks. Why Watford still has a moat is a mystery to me, but it’s a nice place to sit if you don’t want to be bothered. Most people believe that there are evil mermaids or something in the bottom. A few of the stupider ones even claim to have seen them. I’ve been coming down here since second year and I’ve never seen them. Not once. I think it’s a load of bollocks.

I have readings for History and Political Science that I don’t want to do, but brought with me anyway. I know that I could put them off until at least tomorrow night, but I don’t want to do that, either. My script is in my bag, burning a hole in my consciousness. I should have left it in the room. I should have shoved it under my bed so that I could get my school work done. But I didn’t. And now I feel compelled to crack it open again. I’ve become obsessed.

I pull it out and open to Act II, Scene II. Because I’m hopeless.

“O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name;

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”

From what I’ve gathered from the Internet, some like to think that Juliet is saying something along the lines of “Where are you, Romeo?” Those people are missing the point of Shakespeare entirely. No, she’s asking “Why are you Romeo? Why do you, whom I love, have to be from my enemies’ house?” I can understand the sentiment. I’ve often found myself asking why Snow is who he is. Why couldn’t he be a girl? Why couldn’t he be from a respectable family (in my father’s eyes)? Why do I have to be bloody in love with him?

Why on Earth did I listen to Fiona? I get out my phone and shoot her a text that says, “If I make it out of this damnable play alive, I’m going to kill you for making me do it.” She sends back a wink in reply. I’m grumbling about killing her when someone kicks my foot.

The figure blocks out the light from the lantern above me, so I have a hard time making out his face, but I’d recognize those curls anywhere. I groan inwardly. Speak of the Devil.

“Hello again, Snow,” I sigh, putting my script away.

“So this is where you’ve been instead of at rehearsal?” he demands. Apparently skipping pleasantries is a Bunce family specialty.

“I wasn’t feeling well. So I came down to the water to get some air. Do I need your permission for that? I figured since you ran off Wednesday, I’d be given some allowance.”

He growls, worrying his curls. His square shoulders are slumped and he stares at his shoes. “Can I sit? Please?”

“I get a ‘please’? Well, this is a surprise!” I gesture grandly at the grass surrounding me. “Please, Snow, pull up some grass.”

He flops into the grass, still pulling at his hair. I wish he wouldn’t. He’ll pull it all out one day and there won’t be any left for me to pull. Like I would ever get to. But I’d like to. It looks like it would be so satisfying to just take a handful and pull. Use it to pull his head back, expose his too-long neck. He has a mole there that I would love to kiss. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Wherefore art thou, Snow?

**Simon**

He’s making this difficult. But Baz is always making everything difficult. I shouldn’t have expected anything else.

I pull at the hair at the back of my head, and I know it looks ridiculous. I know I look ridiculous. But I can’t get my words out. Not with him acting like this. I had it all thought out. I was gonna find him and tell him that we had to have a truce. Because we’re Romeo and Juliet. And if we don’t work whatever this nonsense is out, I’ll get expelled before I get a chance to be Romeo. And I’m not having that.

But all Baz wants to do is mock me.

“Use your words, Snow,” he sighs, leaning back against a lamppost. I want to knock the smirk off his face.

“Look, I don’t want this. It’s the last thing I want,” I say, trying to look at him and pull at my hair. It didn’t quite work out, and I end up feeling like I look like a bleeding idiot. “But I’m looking at being expelled if we keep up like this. And I’m not getting expelled before I get to be Romeo.”

“What are you suggesting?” he asks, and he seems suspicious. Like he’s the one that gets to be suspicious in this situation.

“A truce,” I say. “No more fighting.”

**Baz**

I have to think about it for a moment. Keeping a truce would be easy enough for me. I haven’t made any moves, hostile or otherwise in years. Not so for Snow. He’s tailed me through the catacombs, and followed me to and waiting during my violin lessons.

But a truce would be a step in the right direction. Maybe we could run lines. Finally.

“Alright, Snow. Truce.”

He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Like I’m speaking a different language. He wasn’t expecting me to agree so easily. That’s fine. I want to keep him on his toes, anyway.


	11. Monday, December 21, 2015

**Simon**

I am a fucking idiot. I do this thing sometimes where I make plans and then forget to ask our even inform Mum about them until the night before. And I’ve done it again. She hates it. It gets me a good thirty minute lecture every time. But I continue to do it because I have a shit memory for things like this.

I told Penny about it on the way home. She was driving and I had my feet up on the dash, adding songs to the Spotify playlist we were listening to on my phone. I dunno how it came up. But suddenly Penny was asking me if Baz and I had any plans to run lines together over break.

“Yeah,” I said. “He asked me to come to his place in on Tuesday.”

“Cool,” she’d said. “Are you gonna remember to ask Mum about it before supper Monday?”

“Yeah,” I replied again. I think I was listening to her at that point. But Micah had just introduced us to this new band that was getting popular in America and I was adding some of their songs to the playlist. She probably could’ve asked if I was planning on going to the moon on Friday and I would have said yes.

“You forgot to ask Mum, didn’t you?” Penny asks. She’s standing in my doorway with her arms crossed, smirking.

“Shit, Penny,” I swear, snapping the book I’d been reading shut. “Yeah, I did.”

“You should go ask now. She’s in a good mood.” Penny is truly a life saver. “But you’d better get to her before Pacey does.”

“Did Pacey forget to ask her something too?” I ask, interested. Pacey, our younger brother whom Penny and I generally don’t get along with, is about as forgetful as I am when it comes to asking permission to go out. But Pacey can get away with it still because he’s still “cute”.

“His girlfriend invited him over for a Christmas party tomorrow night. And he wants to stay the night,” Penny whispers, making her way over to shit on my bed. “He’s gone of and bought condoms and everything. Mum’s gonna flip.”

“Shit yeah she is!”

That means I need to get to her first. Her second tirade is always the worst. I get up and bolt floor the stairs, leaving Penny in my room cackling.

“Mum!” I call, just as I hear Pacey thundering down the stairs behind me. He’s calling for her too, but Mum has this great rule that she answers whoever calls first. Which was me.

We manage to reach her at the same time. She’s in the kitchen, working on making supper. Which must mean that she’s in a really good mood. Bonus.

“Simon first,” she says, pointing to me with a wooden spoon. Pacey stomps his foot and crosses his arms over his chest.

I take a second to catch my breath, then ask as delicately as I can manage, “May I go to Baz’s tomorrow to run lines?”

“When did you make these plans?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at me. It’s the same one that Penny raises at me when she’s getting short. Which really isn’t fair. It also isn’t fair that she gets irrationality angry when I point it out.

I have two options. I can tell the truth and risk her going off and telling me no. That could prove disastrous. Or I can lie and say that he just texted me about it. Which would be fine normally. But Penny and I are still grounded and barred from using the car because Mum and Dad still don’t trust us. So she might ask for proof. Which I don’t have. Truth it is.

“He asked Friday before we left Watford and I forgot to ask you.” It comes out a bit faster than I meant for it to, but it hardly matters. Mum sighs.

“If I call his parents, will they know about it?” she asks, exasperated.

“I’m not sure?” I respond. I don’t know if he tells his parents about his plans.

“I’ll call after supper.” It’s fair, I think. It gives me plenty of time to warn Baz.

“Okay,” I agree. The less I argue, the more likely she’ll say yes and let me take the car.

“Pacey, your turn,” she says, turning to Pacey. I bolt up the stairs.

Penny’s at the top waiting with a thumbs-up. We listen and snicker as Mum verbally flays Pacey because “You don’t need to stay over at your girlfriend’s house!” It’s hysterical.

**Baz**

It’s twenty minutes to seven when I receive a message from Simon alerting me to the fact that Professor Bunce is going to call my parents to make sure that they know about him coming over tomorrow to run lines. Which, really, is fine because I am a responsible son and tell my step-mother when I plan on having guests.

“Fine,” I shoot back. Then I make my way to the kitchen to warn Daphne.

She’s sitting at the table on her computer when I find her and she smiles at me. It’s strange how much my sisters look like her when they smile.

“Hello, Basil,” she says warmly.

“Hello, Mother,” I respond. I go to the fridge and take out the milk, then begin to pour myself a glass before continuing. “Professor Bunce is going to be calling after dinner. She wants to make sure you know that Simon is coming over tomorrow.”

“That’s perfectly fine, dear,” she replies. “I’ll let her know that it’s alright for him to come over. Will he be here for dinner tomorrow?”

“I don’t think he’ll be staying that long,” I say. Though, if the weather is a bad as the weatherman predicted today, he might not have a choice. I don’t think I would mind that.

I make my way back up to my room and send him another text.

“Parents have been warned. Would like to know if you’re staying for dinner.”

I don’t expect an answer back, but he must be glued to his phone because he responds almost immediately.

“Don’t think so. Mum will probably be expecting me back before dark.”

Typical.

**Simon**

After supper, Penny and I sit at the top of the stairs and listen to Mum talk to Baz’s mum. Step-mum, I guess. I can’t exactly hear what she’s saying because she isn’t yelling this time, but it sounds promising. And Penny seems to think so too, because she’s giving me a thumbs-up. Then I hear her say goodbye. Then next thing either of us know, Mum is standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Simon, you can go to Baz’s tomorrow to run lines,” she says. “However, Penny is going to drive you there and pick you up. And unless it snows, I want you back by supper, got it?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say, nodding.

Penny nods, too. She’s been saying for years now that she’d love to see Baz’s house. Pitch Manor. It’s supposed to be really impressive. But I don’t really care all that much for architecture. Or interior design. I’m just going to rehearse.

“I guess you need to find out what time Baz wants me to drop you off,” Penny says, nudging my arm as we go back to my room.

“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh, nudging her back. “I’ll figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all. So, I have another short chapter for you. And I’m sorry that it is so short. But I promise, the next one’s gonna be hella long. Like, crazy hella long. Probably longer than the second chapter. The next few chapters are going to be longer. So, that’s something to look forward to. I’m really excited about the next chapter. Like, really super excited. This next chapter is the one that I’ve been wanting to write since I started this damn thing. So, y’know. There’s that. Anyway, hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think so far, if you haven’t already!


	12. Tuesday, December 22, 2016, pt 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the first half of Day 11. I asked my followers on Tumblr if I should go ahead and post what I have of Day 11 because I'm not sure when I'll be able to get the rest of it written. Classes have started up again and I have family drama going on, so I'm not really able to focus as hard on writing as I would like. A general consensus was that they would like to see what I have so far, so I'm posting this chapter in two parts. I hope you enjoy it, and I'm sorry but it's going to be taking a while between chapters now.

**Baz**

When Simon doesn't show up at the time we agreed on, I assume the worst. Of course, I know that I shouldn't always assume the worst. It just happens sometimes. With the worst, this time, being "he's decided not to come". It should have been something closer to "he's died in a fiery crash because of the ice and snow," but I'm clearly not thinking rationally at the moment.

I'm in the library pacing, alternating between attempting to play my violin and throwing my arms up in frustration. I think Mordelia might be in the doorway or in some hidey hole watching because I hear her giggling. I would care more if I wasn't trying to wrap my mind around what to do. He's nearly an hour late and I don't want to text in case he's driving. But sitting here waiting is driving me mad.

I've been researching pieces to play during the orchard scene. The violin wasn't developed until the sixteenth century, so there aren't many pieces from that time that I could play. But I've been looking for the oldest pieces I can find. I've even looked for pieces from earlier in the century that I could adapt to the violin. But nothing really sticks. Nothing screams Juliet. 

I'm about to go back to the music section of the library when the maid clears her throat from the door. 

"Mr. Pitch, there is a Mr. Snow here to see you." 

Finally. 

"Send him in," I snap, and I don't mean to be short with her. I'm just anxious. Not just anxious. I am anxious. Daphne's gotten into the habit of telling me not to downplay or invalidate my own emotions. I've been trying. 

I lay my violin back in its case and put it away before cleaning up the books I'd been scouring for music. I haven't told Simon yet that Miss Possibelf asked me to play. I don't know when or even if I'll tell him. I don't know if he'll accuse me of trying to sabotage the play again, and I really don't have time for that. 

When I come back from the music shelves, Simon stands in the doorway. His hair and shoulders are wet, like he's just come in from the rain. He smiles sheepishly, running a hand through his still-ridiculous curls. 

"I think I might be here for dinner after all," he says. 

"Is it snowing?" I ask, fully aware of the hilarity in asking Simon Snow if it's snowing out. 

"Penny could barely make it up the drive," he explains. "She said she'd be back after the roads were cleared tomorrow."

"I'll take that as a yes, then," I sigh. 

**Simon**

"Well, yeah," I reply. Baz doesn't seem pleased that I'm stuck here. That's fine, I guess. 

"Alright," he says. "I'll let my step-mother know before dinner."

He walks away, more like stalks away really, presumably to let his step-mother know that I'll be staying the night, and I finally get a good look at the library. It's massive. Like one of those libraries you see in the rich villain's home in a spy movie. The shelves are all dark wood and there are lights built into the carvings in places. Which is a really good idea considering how dark it is in here. It's not as dark as the rest of the house has been so far. All dark wood and red velvet like some vampire's lair. Penny would have a fit if she saw this place. 

Baz can't have been gone for more than five minutes before he stalks back in, in a considerably better mood it looks like, and closes the large double doors behind him. 

"Baz," I say, without even thinking about it, and really I should think about the words that come out of my mouth more carefully, "you're wearing jeans."

**Baz**

Simon Bloody Snow, everyone. 

**Simon**

They're nice jeans, snug without being tight, like they've been tailored. And really, who has their bloody jeans tailored?

"What, did you expect me to stalk about my grand mansion in three piece suits, smoking a pipe? Did I have a monocle?" he sneers. "Or maybe I wore a cravat?"

I really should think these things through more. 

"No, I just. They look nice. I'm not used to seeing you in jeans." 

Fantastic. I'm complimenting his tailored jeans. In his vampire mansion's library. And I'm stuck here for the night. Why did I agree to this? 

"Can we please just rehearse?" Baz sighs. I swear, he's _almost_ smiling. 

"Sure," I reply. There's a table nearby with a couple of plush wing-backed chairs, in red velvet like the rest of the lace of course, so I make my way to it and sit. I pull my script out of the bag I've brought and find myself watching as Baz walks to another table to grab his script. They really are nice jeans. They hug his calves, which are already pretty cut from football, and sit nicely at his hips. They had to have been tailored. 

When he comes back, sitting so gracefully that he doesn't move the chair at all, he looks at me and asks, "Shall we start from the orchard again?"

It's honestly my favorite scene. So of course I agree. 

"Yeah, sounds good."

He fidgets for a moment, running a hand through his hair. I don't know if I noticed it before or not, but he has it hanging loose around his face. It looks much better than when he has it slicked back. Makes him look less like a villain and more like an actual person. 

"How are we doing this then? Just reading or acting it out? Or maybe like we're blocking it?" he asks. 

"Wait, are you nervous?" Because that would be fucking fantastic. Baz nervous? Never happens. Ever. I swear, the more you poke him, the cooler he gets. This is something else. Completely.

"I've never done anything like this before," he snaps. Then he admits more quietly, "I've never done anything like this before."

So that's it. 

"Well, when I run lines with Penny, I'll usually have her read and I'll give my lines like I'm performing them," I explain. "But since we're both in the play, we can just act them. If you have them memorized."

**Baz**

I've had my lines memorized for a week now. At least for the orchard scene. I've read those pages so many times that my script naturally falls open to Act II, Scene 2. I don't tell Snow any of this, of course. Instead, I agree to act the scene as if we were blocking it. Which seems like a terrible idea. 

It turns out it is a terrible idea, because the second I say yes, Snow is up spewing lines at me. This is the past where Romeo is hiding in the orchard, listening for Juliet. Waiting. And he sees her. And she's like the sun. Well, he likens her to the sun. 

I _feel_ like the sun again. And, honestly, if I can't control myself I might as well drop out of the play. If I can't keep myself from blushing through this whole scene, what's the fucking point? 

I must miss a line, because Snow stops and frowns. 

"Are you all right?" he asks, squinting at me. "You're really red."

"I'm fine, Snow," I snap. But I'm not fine. It feels too hot in here. And I feel like I'm the center of it. 

He looks doubtful. Let him. 

“Ay, me!” I sigh, rising from my chair and looking off into the vague distance. That has to be the line I missed. So we’re just continuing on. 

Simon shrugs.  

“She speaks:  
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art  
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head  
As is a winged messenger of heaven  
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes  
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him  
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds  
And sails upon the bosom of the air.”

I pretend not to hear him. Juliet doesn’t know that he’s there at this point. 

“O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?  
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;  
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,  
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.”

We’ve gone over this scene enough that I can afford to be on autopilot right now. If I only listen to Snow, and don’t look at him, I can concentrate on my lines. If I look at him, I find myself fixated on his lips. And that’s not something I want to think about right now. i don’t want to think about his lips. How they curve, how the bottom is slightly more plump than the top. I suppose that's true for most people. But it's something I noticed about Simon. He has beautiful lips. I want to kiss them if I watch him speak for too long. I want to kiss them most of the time, but especially when I watch him speak. But now I have to.

"What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night  
So stumblest on my counsel?"

"By a name  
I know not how to tell thee who I am:  
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,  
Because it is an enemy to thee;  
Had I it written, I would tear the word."

He looks pained. That's fine. He's playing the part. But it looks so genuine, I'm having a hard time distinguishing.


	13. Tuesday, December 22, 2015, part 2

**Simon**

I don’t know when I started meaning the words that came from Romeo’s mouth. As my own. It’s funny how it works sometimes. You become your character. And I’m not usually that method. But this time. This play. I mean what I say. I do regret that I can’t be someone else for my Juliet. Someone who isn't my Juliet's enemy. And that's fucking strange.

That isn't the only strange part of all this. The strangest part of all this is how much Baz has meant all of his lines. I didn't really see it before. When we were just running lines at the table or just in the theater in general. When other people were watching. But I can see it now. In the set of his jaw, the way he holds eye contact for just a second too long. The light in his eyes when he's delivering lines. They look like they're made of light.

We get to the end of the scene and I all but collapse back into my chair.

"I think I need a break, Baz," I sigh. My throat hurts, like I didn't have enough to drink before we started. Which is probably true.

"That's fine," Baz says. "Are you hungry? I can get us some snacks."

"That'd be great," I respond, hopefully not too eagerly.

"Alright," he replies. He walks out of the library, I'm assuming to go get something for us to eat.

I want to get up and like around the shelves, just to see what on the world the Pitches consider worthy of keeping in a private library. I want to, but I don't because I don't want Baz to come back and find me snooping and accuse me of... What, exactly? I don't know. Snooping? I don't want to be accused of snooping because I was caught snooping. Whatever. I just won't snoop. I'll look through my script instead.

**Baz**

Snow is sitting exactly where I left him when I return. Which is suspicious. I expected to find him snooping about the cookbooks. I tell him so. And he sputters like that's exactly what he wanted to do.

"It doesn't really matter is you snoop around the library," I sigh, trying to hold in my smile. "You can look around if you want."

He tries to play it cool, not jump out of his chair immediately after I say he can look around, but it doesn't work. He bolts up and practically runs to the shelves. Typical Snow.

"Did you want to eat first? Or should I put these scones back in the kitchen?" I call. It's not passive aggressive. It's not.

When I told Daphne that Simon is in love with Cook Pritchard's sour cherry scones, so she got the recipe when I told her that Simon was coming over just so that she could make them for him. Honestly, she might be an angel. I don't know what angels look like, but I wouldn't be surprised to see her face in classic paintings of angels. She even sent up a slab of butter. Which is good, because I'm pretty sure I once saw him eat a whole slab of butter. It had to have been on a dare, because no one actually eats butter. But he did it. And he still eats a ton of it on each scone.

I swear I see his ears perk up like a dog's when I mention scones. He stops near the children's books, the ones that we had from my childhood and that Daphne insisted we keep for the babies, and jogs back to our sitting area. He has a stupidly eager grin on his face. His face is stupid. No it isn't. Yes it is. I don't know.

**Simon**

They're Cook Pritchard's sour cherry scones. And I might be dying a little bit inside because they look just like Cook Pritchard's. Almost like they had her send some over. Did they? She is a cousin or something.

"These look fantastic," I fairly well moan looking at the scones up close. "And they smell amazing, too."

"I'll be sure to let Daphne know that she did well," Baz says and I can't tell if he's being sarcastic.

"Your step-mum made these?"

"Yeah. She got Cook Pritchard's recipe."

That explains everything. And they are absolutely divine. Just as good as Cook Pritchard's.

"They're absolutely divine," I say before taking a large gulp of milk. Because of course Baz brought butter, scones, and a pitcher of milk. Like we're at breakfast instead of tea. But I'm fine with that. Milk goes well with warm scones.

Baz isn't eating, but I don't say anything about it. I've noticed before that I don't see him eat at mealtimes. Which is odd. But he isn't overly thin or anything, so he must eat. Maybe he doesn't like eating in front of people? I don't know why he wouldn't.

**Baz**

His mouth is full when I decide to ask Snow, "So what other productions have you done?"

He quickly swallows his bite of scone and grins. "Miss Possibelf does this thing where she alternates what kind of production we do every year. So we'll alternate between musical and traditional stage play. So my first year doing the play was third year and it was a musical year. So we did _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_ , and I managed to score a part as one of Joseph's brothers, Ruben. The next year was _Othello_ , I was the clown. Fifth year we did _Les Misérables_ , I was Marius."

"Wasn't that Eddie Redmayne's character in the movie?" I ask, unable to contain myself.

"Yeah," Simon laughs, and his unremarkable blue eyes light up. They get more remarkable when he laughs. I love when he laughs.

"So sixth year was a comedy year…I think it was _The Merchant of Venice_. Miss P has a thing for Shakespeare, you see. Last year was _Phantom of the Opera_. I got to play the Phantom. Which was phenomenal. It was the hardest I've ever had to work in my life for a play. Second year they did _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , and I wish I would have auditioned. I would have loved to have tried for Puck."

Of course he would.

"So you like Shakespeare, then?" I find myself asking. Of course he does. I can see it on his face. But it's something to talk about while we take our break from working. Which, really, if we take a break between every scene we'll be here all night. I wouldn't mind that. He'll be here anyway.

"Yeah," he says around a bite. He swallows before he continues, thankfully. "I really enjoy his comedies, but some of his sonnets are excellent."

"But you've always wanted to play Romeo?" There seems to be a disconnect between comedies and sonnets and Romeo.

"Well, yeah. But who hasn't?"

"I never saw the appeal of _Romeo and Juliet_." The words are spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. "It's a tragedy about these two children who think that they've fallen in love after they've first met. She was thirteen. And that isn't really love."

Simon's ears go red. And he looks like smoke is going to billow from them and his nose any second. What have I done?

**Simon**

I didn't think it was possible to feel the sort of anger I feel when the words "that isn't really love" come out of Baz's mouth. I mean, I've been angry before. Loads of times. About loads of things. But this is hot. It's fire in my cheeks and my ears and everything is sort of red around the edges. 

"But it doesn't really matter what our idea of 'real love' is, does it?" I say, trying to be calm. "Because Romeo and Juliet was written in a different time. When people didn't necessarily live all that long and so getting married at thirteen was fine. We can't assign knowledge to characters that they wouldn't have necessarily had. At thirteen, Juliet was getting ready to start her life. And she didn't want to start it with the boy her parents set her up with, she wanted to start it with the boy that she met who she could talk to. And to her, that was love."

Baz just stares, his mouth hanging open just a bit. So I keep going. 

"In Miss P's period acting class she told us that, if we plan to play a character that was written in a time different than our own, we have to adopt the mindset of that time in order to properly play the character. So if I'm going to play a character like Romeo, it doesn't matter what I think real love is, it just matters what he thought real love was."

"And what do you think real love is, Snow?"

**Baz**

I don't mean to whisper. I don't mean to rise from my chair. I don't mean to do anything, but I can't stop myself. Simon stands, too, and it must be to say something. But I don't hear it. I don't hear anything even though I see his lips moving. Those damnable lips. 

I'm walking toward him, backing him toward the shelf behind him. There is only one thing running through my mind. It horrible. The one sonnet of Shakespeare's that I actually have memorized. And it's horrible because it fits. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. 

I can't stop the words spilling from my mouth. 

"A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,  
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;"

That shuts him up. His mouth hangs agape like he never learned to close it. His eyes, unremarkable blue, are wide as saucers. I wish I could stop. 

"A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted  
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:  
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,  
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;  
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,  
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth."

I am so far beyond impulse control I can't even remember what it looks like; so I reach up and touch his bottom lip. It's as soft as I imagined it would be all those nights as I lay in bed watching him sleep. 

"And for a woman wert thou first created;  
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,  
And by addition me of thee defeated,  
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing."

Simon sucks in a breath as I move my hand to brush his cheek. I wish I could know what's going through his beautiful head. He isn't very talkative on a normal basis, but I believe I may have sucked all the words right out of him. That's an accomplishment. 

"But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,  
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure."

His eyes went soft when I touched his cheek. And he doesn't look like he's going to punch me. I didn't realize before how dangerously close we're standing. And I didn't realize until now how he's resting his face in my hand. I wonder what would happen if I just…

**Simon**

Baz is so close that I can feel his breath on my face. I don't know exactly how I feel about it, actually. And what about that sonnet? Am I actually resting my face in his hand? Yeah, I guess I am. But now he's moving closer, leaning in closer. Penny's right, he does smell like cedar and bergamot. It's good. 

**Baz**

I don't know if I move first or if he does, but I do know that Simon Snow's lips are soft and warm. And he tastes like sour cherry scones and butter and _bloody hell_. I am kissing Simon Snow. And _he_ is kissing _me_. And he's doing this thing with his chin that's just beautiful. He's done this before. I haven't. And since I can't hope to match him, I let him continue. 

**Simon**

I'm kissing Baz. Baz, who is my nemesis. He isn't really my nemesis. People don't have nemeses. He's just my roommate. My opposite in the play. A boy. 

I haven't really thought about kissing a boy before. I think I like it. Baz is softer than I expected, warmer. And since he is soft and warm, and since it's something I think I've thought a lot about now that I'm actually thinking about it, I grab a fistful of his hair in each hand. 

**Baz**

My scalp is on fire. I am on fire. The world could be burning around me and I would burn right along with it. Because nothing really matters but this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so ridiculously happy to have this chapter finished for you guys. I’ve been waiting so long to write this scene and I’m actually really happy with it. I’m so happy with it. Oh! The sonnet that Baz spews off is Shakespeare’s Sonnet 20. I had to look through nineteen others before I ran across this gem. And it isn’t without it’s problems, but I thought it was pretty good. So. I want to let everyone know that the end of this chapter may or may not mean a short hiatus. I don’t want it to, but I really don’t have a lot of time to write. And it may be that I only write.update on the weekends now. But I’ll keep you all posted. <3


	14. Wednesday, December 23, 2015

**1:08 AM**

**Simon**

I don't know what I expected after kissing Baz. It certainly wasn't continuing with our rehearsal like nothing had happened. And it also wasn't having dinner with his family without saying a word about anything other than what scenes we're rehearsing. It probably wasn't going for a drive in the snow at midnight like a couple of idiots or getting stranded for an hour until his aunt Fiona came with her friend Nico's snowplow to dig us out. It definitely wasn't collapsing in front of the fireplace in his room in a giggling pile of warm pajamas and wet hair like a couple of love struck schoolgirls. But that's what _happened_. And now we're curled up on a blanket by the fire, Baz has one hand on my chest and the other is playing with my hair and it feels _so good_. I don't even know what really happened to get us here. One minute we were at each others' throats like it was third year all over again, and the next he was quoting one of Shakespeare's gayest sonnets at me and pinning me against the Shakespeare collection in his family's library. 

I don't know when exactly my life started revolving around Shakespeare, but I'm not sure how I feel about it. It's almost like realizing that your life is the plot of a book or a movie or something. Like when Bobby started becoming self-aware in _A Goofy Movie_. Priya and Pip watched that movie until they wore the tape out and Mum had to find it on DVD. When they realized that the tape wouldn't work anymore, they wailed for days. Penny and I were at Watford, but Pacey and Prem had been home for some reason and they deliberately came back to Watford to escape it. Mum found a DVD so fast it was almost like magic.

I definitely didn't excuse myself after dinner to call Penny. And we didn't have a conversation that went something along the lines of:

"Penny, I need you to come get me right now."

"Simon, I can't get the car out of the drive, much less to Hampshire. What's going on?"

"I think I snogged Baz."

"What do you mean you _think_ you snogged Baz? Were you drugged? Were you in some sort of trance?"

"Of course not, Penny. I'm just having a hard time believing it actually happened."

"Wait, do you mean you _weren't_ rehearsing and you snogged him or you _were_ rehearsing and you snogged him?"

"We weren't rehearsing and I snogged him. Though I think it was more _he_ snogged _me_."

"I want all of the details the minute you get in the car."

"So you're coming to get me?"

"No, Simon! I told you I can't even make it out the drive. I'll head out as soon as the roads clear tomorrow. Text me and keep me updated, yeah?"

"Yeah, alright. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Simon!"

I swear, in this conversation that definitely didn't happen, Penny didn't sound nearly as surprised as I though she would about me snogging  my once-enemy. It's almost like she was expecting it. Which couldn't be right. Because this is completely and totally one hundred percent out of the blue. At least, I think it is.

Baz shifts his arm and winds one of my curls around his finger.

"I've always wanted to do this," he sighs.

"Do what?" I say, feeling all of a sudden very self-conscious. For no reason whatsoever. 

 "Get my hands on these ridiculous curls," he replies, and it's almost a laugh.

"Okay, but what do you mean you've always wanted to?"

**Baz**

I think my heart is in my throat.  Or it's trying to jump through my esophagus. Whatever it's doing, it isn't pleasant. What did I mean by that? That I've wanted to touch his curls since he started growing them out third year? That I wanted to know what it felt like to lie with him by the fire when we were fourteen? That I wanted to alternately kiss him and kill him when we were fifteen because I didn't know what to do with my emotions? That sixteen almost killed me because of it? 

Trying to breathe around the knot in my throat, the pulsating knot that feels like it would sooner strangle me than allow me to speak, is painful to say the least. But I manage a deep breath. My hand is frozen in his hair. Another deep breath. There's only one way to answer this question. And it might actually kill me to say it. Another breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.

“Simon" -his name alone could suffocate me right now- "I've been in love with you since we were twelve."

He sits bolt upright to look at me, his eyes wide. And even though I can't quite see it in the shadows, his face is a mask of shock.

"Since we were twelve?" he breathes, and I nod. "You've been? Since we were twelve?"

I nod.

"That was second year, Baz."

"I am aware that we were twelve in second year, Simon," I sigh. 

"No, I just-" he sputters. He's raking a hand through his hair, tugging at his mess of curls like he does when he's frustrated. Then he looks at me with watery eyes. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Why _didn't_ I say something?

"Would you have responded well in any other circumstance?"

"Probably not," he admits, scratching at the back of his head.

"I think that, for the first few years, just being close to you was enough. But then you and Wellbelove got together and it wasn't. Then you two broke up and for some reason demented, fifteen-year-old me thought that maybe if I pulled your pigtails enough, you would notice me. And when you didn't, I stopped." That was more than I wanted to share. More than I ever wanted to share, but I couldn't stop it. I don't think I'll ever be able to stop it again. Not as long as I have Snow in my lap.

**Simon**

Did he just say he was pulling my pigtails?

"Did you just say you were pulling my pigtails? Baz, you put a snake in my locker."

He grimaces. "I know, it was stupid. And I regret it, and I'm sorry. Even though it's probably too late for that; understandably so, of course."

I can't hold in my laugh. Hearing him apologize for the snake three years later is relieving to the point of hilarity. "No, it isn't too late. I accept your apology."

Penny read something online that said you should never say "it's okay" in response to an apology if it was a thing that isn't okay, because it'll make the person apologizing think that it's okay to continue doing the thing that they're apologizing for. So she made me stop saying "it's okay" and now we say "I accept your apology." And if it was something that really wasn't okay, we say "I accept your apology, but it's not okay" just to remind each other of our boundaries. It's a good exercise in conflict resolution or something like that.

Baz gives me a small smile, more of an amused smirk really, and pats his leg. Like he wants me to lay back down. I am happy to oblige. I love the feeling of him playing with my hair.

**11:56 AM**

**Simon**

I wake up, stiff and a bit sore, with my head still in Baz's lap. He's laying down, but his hand is still in my hair and there are blankets strategically spread over both of us. Which probably means that someone came in while we were asleep and decided to cover us up. Because the fire had gone out and they thought that covering us would be easier than starting another fire. Which is true. But still a bit unsettling.

"You're awake," Baz says when he sees that my eyes are open. "Penelope has been texting you incessantly for the past hour. I didn't read anything, her name just flashed across your phone screen."

I groan and cover my eyes with my arm. There isn't any light coming in through the thick, velvet curtains. It's just the concept of morning that makes them hurt. "She said she would come pick me up as soon as she could get the car out of the drive. I guess she can get it out."

Baz hands me my phone, and I have to suppress  an idiot grin. I don't know when I started feeling like this, like Baz is all I wanted out of life, but I must have felt it for a while. And I think I'm okay with that. I don't think it means I'm gay. But what I had with Agatha was so short lived that I can't really say if I actually loved her and was attracted to her or if I was in love with and attracted to the idea of her. Whichever it was, I was a shitty boyfriend.

I take the phone and groan, again. I have six missed calls and seventeen texts from Penny. Apparently she's frantic. And on her way.

"Penny's on her way," I sigh, sitting up. "Can I shower before she gets here?"

He nods. "Sure. I'll get you a towel."

**12:16 PM**

**Penny**

Pitch Manor, in the light of day, is very impressive. Even more impressive, though, is the fact that Simon smells like Baz when I arrive to pick him up. 

"Simon, did you and Baz, y'know, seal the deal?"

Simon frowns. "What?"

"Did you 'do the do'?"

He looks at me like I have two heads.

" _Did you have sex, Simon_?" I hiss, trying desperately to stay quiet enough that Baz can't hear me, even though I'm exasperated and I'm fairly certain Baz can hear me anyway. He has freaky good hearing.

"No!" Simon exclaims, jumping about a foot into the air, arms waving wildly. "Why would that be the first thing you ask?"

I shrug. "You smell like him."

"Because I took a shower this morning and _used his soap_ , Penny."

"Is that what you kids are calling it these days?" I ask, and laugh when Simon slaps my arm. "I'm kidding. I believe you. So if you weren't having wild I-thought-I-hated-you-but-I'm-actually-in-love-with-you sex, what did you do all night?"

He scowls at me, but responds, "We mostly just talked."

"About?"

"Can we talk about this later, Penny?" he says, eyeing Baz like he knows he's listening. "Like on the way home?"

"Sure," I say. And that's the end of that, isn't it?

**Simon**

I want to tell Penny everything. _Everything_. But Baz is definitely listening to everything we're saying. And I don't want him knowing that I'm telling Penny everything. I want him to trust me. And when did _that_ happen? I dunno.

Wait.

"You've been calling me Simon!"

Baz stops dead and I slam into his back. He steps forward and turns to face me. He looks like he might bite me or something. And not in any fun way. He looks like I'm something on the bottom of his shoe.

"You're only _just now_ realizing that?"

"No." Yes.

"You're an idiot, Simon," he says, smirking. There's no malice in it. And I want to kiss him again. I want to shove him against the wall and snog his beautiful brains out. But I don't. Not because I don't want Penny to see or anything. I couldn't care less if Penny sees. But I think Baz does. And he was a bit fidgety about kissing anywhere but in his bedroom after the first time. Still don't know what that's about.

I think I might be beaming.

**Baz**

"Have lunch with us before you leave?" is the stupidest sentence I have ever uttered in my life.

Though my father hates the Bunces, for political reasons, he is overjoyed to see and speak to Penny. As if her being here somehow negates the fact that I am 100% gay. Penny manages it gracefully, answering questions about her father’s studies, her own studies, and she even subtly reminds him that she has a boyfriend in America, bless her. Daphne, on the other hand, is happy to talk to Simon. She asks him about his studies, how the play is going, how many other productions he’s been in, what other productions he’s been in. Meanwhile Mordelia, my seven-year-old sister, is throwing peas across the table at me trying to get me to eat. Neither of my parents notice because they’re too absorbed in my prospective future spouses, thankfully.

When the interrogations are finally over, Simon, Penny, and I make a break for the library where Simon’s bag is packed and waiting. Not that I want him to leave. If I could, I would force Penny to leave him and he could sleep under my bed. But the maid would find out and tell my father. Then I would be sent away to Switzerland. And I rather like England.

So, Simon and Penny leave, and I retreat back to the stacks to search for a violin piece that screams ‘Juliet’. I don’t know if I will ever find a violin piece that screams ‘Juliet’.

**2:16 PM**

**Simon**

We actually make it to the car and to the main road before Penny finally cracks.

“Okay, spill. Everything,” she says, only taking her eyes off the road once. I’m proud of her for that. Usually we would be spinning off the road while she stares me down.

I turn in my seat so that I’m facing her (because sitting sideways is the safest way to ride in a car, obviously) and words just spill out like I’ve overturned a bucket of water.

“So, we were practicing, right? And things started to get weirdly intense. We were working on the orchard scene, I should have started there. We were working on the orchard scene, and Baz was sort of spaced out, like he wasn’t concentrating. And he wouldn’t look at me, but he was all red, like he was fevered or blushing or something. So I asked if he was okay and he said he was fine, really defensively. But then he jumped in with his line and we kept going.

“And while we were practicing, I got this feeling like I meant what I was saying, y’know? It was weird.”

“That’s what you meant by weirdly intense?” Penny says skeptically. “You meant your lines?”

I sigh. “I meant them _for Baz_ , I think. It was so weird. It was like I was Romeo and he was Juliet and I genuinely wished that I could be someone other than Romeo for him. Does that make any sense?”

She shakes her head.

“Whatever. Anyway, we finished the scene and took a break. Baz’s step-mum made sour cherry scones. They were fantastic. While we had tea, we talked about the other productions I’ve been in, then somehow we got talking about _Romeo and Juliet_ and how Baz doesn’t think that Juliet was really in love with Romeo. And I thought we were going to have it out in his family’s library. But then he asked me what I think real love is, and just started quoting Shakespeare’s 20th at me. And he backed me into a bookshelf and started snogging me. It was absolutely ridiculous.”

Penny’s stopped the car on some back road and is openly staring at me now. Her jaw is practically on the floor.

“That can’t have been it?” she asks.

**Penny**

Simon starts playing with the hair at the back of his neck, like he does when he gets nervous. His cheeks go red and he drops his eyes to look at the cup holders. As if there’s something interesting there.

“Simon!”

“Okay!” he says loudly. He’s still staring at the cup holder like the secrets of the universe are waiting there for him. But he talks.

“While he was quoting the sonnet, he touched my lip, and my cheek. And he sort of held my face, like he was trying to decide if I was real. And, you were right, he smells like cedar and bergamot.”

Well of course I was right. He and Mum use the same soap. Simon’ll notice eventually.

I feel like I’m watching two characters in a book finally get together after three hundred pages of lead-up. That’s what this feels like. Like bubbles and butterflies, and they aren’t even yours but you’re so deliriously happy because _they finally got together_! They can finally be happy.

“What happened after that?” I ask. Because Simon stopped texting me back after dinner, and I have to know everything. He said he’d tell me everything.

“Well, we had dinner with his family. Which was awkward.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously. Then we went back to the library and ran a couple more scenes. But we couldn’t concentrate on it. There may or may not have been more snogging. And then we went for a drive.”

What? “Simon, it was snowing!”

He laughs, and I’d swear it was almost giddy, “I know! We got stuck about thirty minutes from the house. Baz had to call his aunt to come get us. She was _livid_! But her boyfriend was a good sport about it. He brought his plough. I actually think that Fiona liked me? It was weird. She kept looking at us like she couldn’t quite wrap her head around something. And Baz was grinning the whole time.”

**9:53 PM**

**Simon**

Penny's voice has turned into a nice hum in the back of my consciousness. She came to my room after dinner and flopped down on my floor so that we could talk more. I told her about what Baz said while we were curled up in front of the fire. Not word for word. Because Penny doesn't need to know all of the details. But I told her about him apologizing about the snake. And how he's been in love with me since we were twelve. She positively squealed.

"That was second year, Simon! He said that he's been in love with you since _second year_?"

I laughed, "That's exactly what I said. And yeah. He said that he's been in love with me since second year."

"Did you snog him again?"

"Maybe."

Now I think she's talking about Micah. Something about her and Dad going to visit this summer. There's some  major linguistics conference going on at the University of Chicago that Dad's attending and Penny begged and begged until he agreed to let her go, too. To see Micah. But I can't focus on any of it. All I can think about is Baz.

I pull out my phone and type out a quick text.

"You still awake?"

I barely get my phone locked when it lights up with Baz's reply.

"Of course."

I can't keep from grinning.

"Do you want to hang out tomorrow?"

"On Christmas Eve?" is his reply.

"On Christmas Eve."

He takes a bit longer to reply this time. "Sure. Pick you up at 3?"

"Excellent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Oh man this was fun to write! I think I’m in love with this chapter. I don’t quite remember when I started writing this chapter, but I was working on it all day today. Like, I was actually writing in class today. Because I didn’t do my reading, I was very much not in a good place, and I didn’t feel like listening to the brown noser in the front row talk about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight because she has no earthly idea what she’s talking about ever. So, anyway, all this to say that I’ve been writing nonstop today and it was a lot of fun. Well. Not nonstop. I had a doctor’s appointment today to have some blood work done. And now I have a slight bruise in my left elbow crease. But whatever. I had fun writing and that’s all that matters. Anyway, I’m looking for suggestions for Baz’s song. Sixteenth century violin is the ideal, but if something screams Juliet to someone, I’d love to hear it. (I have a suggestion sitting in my inbox right now that I ned to listen to, so I'm going to do that. But still.) <3


	15. Thursday, December 24, 2016, part 1

**Penny**

Simon kissed Baz. I didn't dream it. Simon. Kissed. Baz. It only took them six years. And now it's like they can't get enough of each other. They've been texting all day. Even though they have a date this afternoon. In three hours. I guess I can't blame them. Micah and I did the same when we first started dating. But I at least told Mum about it.

"I'm going to ask her, Penny," he says  while I rinse flour off my hands. "I just haven't decided what to say yet."

I roll my eyes and look back at him. Honestly. "You say 'Hey, Mum, my new boyfriend asked me out for coffee and he's going to be here at three, is it okay if I go?'"

"He's not my boyfriend!" Simon objects loudly.

"Who isn't your boyfriend?" Agatha asks, walking into the kitchen. Her parents let her come over today since she couldn't make it over yesterday. Because of the snow. We're making gingerbread men. And women.

"Nobody!" Simon yelps. We didn't hear her come in. Oops.

"I was teasing," I offer as explanation. "Simon's playing Romeo and Baz is playing Juliet, so I joke that they're going on dates and such when they meet up to rehearse."

Agatha nods like she's unsure if she believes me. "I didn't _think_ you were gay, Simon," she says.

"I'm…not?" Simon says, like he's the one who's unsure now. This is a train wreck waiting to happen.

"Simon, I think Mum's in her study. Since you were looking for her," I say, trying to get him out of here as smoothly as possible. I didn't stop being Agatha's friend when they broke up, but I think she stopped being Simon's. This is actually the first time they've talked in a couple of months. And, I mean, they broke up in fifth year, so I don't really expect them to talk more than a time or two every few months. But this is the most awkward conversation they've had since they broke up.

**Simon**

I wave goodbye to Agatha as I pass on my way out of the kitchen. I can't stick around.

 _I didn't_ think _you were gay, Simon_.

Why does the possibly of me having a boyfriend automatically make me gay? Aren't there in-betweens?  I'm sure there are. There would almost have to be.

I'm at the door to Mum's study before I even realize I'm headed there. It's cracked open and I can hear her typing away on her computer. Then she pauses.

"Come in," she calls. And I would really love to know how she does that. How she manages to know when someone's outside her door. It would be  so useful.

I take a deep breath and open the door, just barely leaning in. My stomach is twisting in knots.

"Hi, Mum," I say lamely.

"What do you want, Simon?" she asks, cutting right to the point. As mums do.

"To go out. This afternoon. With Baz," I say. As awkwardly as is humanly possible. It's best to get to the point with Mum. She prefers it that way. When she asks what you want, you tell her exactly what you want. You aren't pitching a show to the BBC.

"When?" she asks, not taking her eyes off her computer. It's a little scary.

"He said three."

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know." This is starting to sound like a really bad pitch.

She sighs and looks up over her laptop at me. Her left eyebrow is raised. That's her "no" eyebrow.

"You don't know where you're going or when you'll be back, you just know that Baz will be here at three."

I nod.  I don't really have the words or the air in my lungs to say anything. I don't think I've ever been so nervous in my life.

"Did you already say yes?"

My stomach drops to the floor. I feel like I might throw up if I open my mouth. So I just nod again.

She grins like she's in on a secret that I'm not, and shakes her head. "Go, Simon. It's fine."

The relief that washes over me, the cool wave that relieves anxiety and calms my stomach, is a powerful force.

"Thanks, Mum," I sigh. "You're the best."

"I know," she says, going back to her computer.

I close the door behind me and make it halfway down the stairs to ask Penny to help me find something to wear before I remember that Agatha's here. And the panic officially sets back in. I don't know what to wear on a date with Baz. Everything was easy with Agatha. We never actually went out anywhere. And the times we did, her dad lent me suits and things. Because nothing I owned was good enough.

I shoot Penny an "SOS" and bolt into my room and lock the door. Hopefully she'll get it and come up.  But until then, I'm settling for staring into my closet sadly.

**Penny**

"Your phone went off," Agatha says, looking at it like she doesn't quite know what it is. "'SOS'? From Simon?"

I put down my spatula and bowl and wipe my hands on the nearest hand towel. I tell Agatha I'll be back and take off for the stairs at a jog. Simon and I agreed to only use SOS in case of emergency. I'm assuming this is a date-related emergency.

When I make it upstairs, Simon's door is closed and locked, This in itself isn't indicative of emergency. Paired with the "SOS", I'm not sure when I'll find when I get the door open. I reach up to the top of the doorframe and take down the key. I work the door open and replace the key before going in.

"Oh, Simon."

There are clothes littering the floor, from pajamas to waistcoats. Simon sits in the doorway of his closet, staring blankly, with a purple tie sitting over his head like floppy rabbit ears. He's thankfully still in the clothes he was wearing when he went to talk to Mum. He doesn't acknowledge my presence until I take the tie off his head.

"Help?" he asks.

A quick scan of the room reveals exactly nothing. He has a few pairs of jeans scattered about, but the ones he's wearing are really fine. Well.

"Is that flour on your bum?" He nods pathetically. "Right. Get those off. You've got a clean pair of jeans on your bed. Then I want you to put on that red dress shirt Mum got you for Christmas last year, remember it?"

He nods again.

While he does that, changes jeans and goes to pull his shirt out of the closet, I take a look through his bag. Nothing in particular stands out. There are a few Watford jumpers with the school's crest on the chests where a chest pocket would go, a few pairs of socks, boxers (briefs? Boxer briefs? I don't really know). Then my hand brushes over something soft and warm, nothing like anything I've ever felt in Simon's wardrobe before.

I carefully pull it out, trying my best not to snag the delicate fabric. It's a cable-knit jumper, light brown, and fuzzy. Not in a "this could be hair" way. More like the fibers of the yarn are loose. I want one.

"What's this, Simon?" I ask, holding it up so that he can see.

"I dunno," he says when he finally looks. "Where'd you find it?"

"In your  bag." I don't really mean to sniff it; it's a reflex, I think. But it smells like cedar and bergamot. Like Mum's soap. Like Baz's.

"It must be Baz's," he says, buttoning his shirt. He buttons it up to the collar, leaving the top two undone. He doesn't plan to wear a tie. He goes to tuck it in, but I hold out my hand.

"Wait. Leave it untucked. Put this on over." I lightly toss the jumper. The warm color matches his shirt nicely.

**Simon**

The jumper is a bit snug 'round my shoulders, but otherwise it fits fine. Looking in the mirror, it looks fine too. Very posh. Much more posh than I'm used to. But it's soft. And warm. I think I like it.

"Should I be wearing a tie with this?" I can't help asking Penny. My shirt is a deep red, so a black tie would look really good. I just don't know if it's too much. I feel like I should be wearing a tie. The collar being loose makes the whole thing look messy, in a lazy way. Like I woke up and decided to throw on the nearest clothes I could find.

Penny looks me over and frowns. "I think you could. But do you think that would look too formal?"

"I think I look lazy," I say.  

"So put on a tie, Simon," Penny sighs. She's getting annoyed with me. This was supposed to be her day with Agatha, and I'm keeping her from it. But I'm her brother. Going on a date. With my former enemy. I think I'm allowed to keep her from her day a bit.

**Penny**

When Simon is finally dressed, he looks pretty good. It's also 2:50 and I've gotten three texts from Baz asking if Simon is ready or if he's too early. I'd long left him to his fretting to go back to the kitchen and make biscuits with Agatha. He makes his grand entrance looking for all the world like he's going to throw up all over his sensible shoes.

"How do I look?" he asks. He seems scared. More scared asking us how he looks than he is about going out with Baz. Not that Agatha knows he's going on a date with Baz. Oh. That's it.

"You look very handsome, Simon," Agatha says matter-of-factly. Almost like she's a mum, rather than a friend. Like it's obvious he looks handsome and she has better things to comment on.

I can't help rolling my eyes.

"The tie looks good," I add. "You were right."

"'Course I was," he grins.

My phone buzzes again and I grin back. "Your chariot awaits."

There's a knock on the door.

**Baz**

My heart is pounding in my throat when I hear myself knock on the door. It stops completely when Simon answers it. He’s wearing red, which is a great color on him, but he’s also wearing a jumper. A wooly, beige jumper. A wooly, beige, cable-knit jumper that looks mysteriously like one that I had been planning on wearing tonight. That I couldn’t find.

“Are you wearing my jumper, Snow?”

He goes just about as red as his shirt and sputters, “Penny found it in my bag. I think it may have fallen in while you were packing. I’m sorry, I can take it off if you want-”

“No, keep it,” I cut him off. “It looks good on you.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but he goes even _redder_ than before. He opens the door a tad more and asks, “Would you like to come in for a bit? I was helping Penny with her gingerbread, so I need to get my coat and things.”

“Sure,” I agree, stepping inside.

“Pacey’s in his room sulking,” Simon explains, closing the door behind me. “And the babies are in their room watching a film. I think it’s _Up_ today. Yesterday was _The Aristocats_. They’re on a Disney kick. Penny and Agatha are in the kitchen.”

Then he disappears up the stairs. I follow the sounds of spoons to the kitchen where Penelope and Agatha are busy mixing colored icing for their biscuits. Penny looks up and grins at me.

“Hi, Baz!” she exclaims, putting down her bowl. She swings around the counter to give me a quick hug, and thank goodness she isn’t covered in flour or sugar.

“Hello, Basil,” Agatha says, smiling pleasantly.

"Hi, Penny. Hello, Agatha.."

Penny releases me from the hug, but leaves her arm around my waist. Which is, I guess, a "welcome to the family". She says wryly, "So where are you taking my brother this evening, Baz? I'm not going to have to come find the two of you, am I?" She waggles her eyebrows. 

I find myself shaking my head. "I'll thank you to not, Penelope Bunce. Your brother is in capable hands."

"Oh, I'm not concerned about that. I'm concerned your hands might be a bit _too_ capable, Baz Pitch."

"Penny!"

I expected Agatha's protest. I didn't expect Simon's. He looks scandalized, blustering into the kitchen not unlike a summer storm. His dun overcoat billows around him, unbuttoned and glorious. It nearly takes my breath away. He _is_ light, and  sunshine, and everything warm. Even looking like he's about to brave a blizzard, he radiates it. Good _lord;_  how long have I waited for this?

"She's fine, Simon," I hear myself saying. I ignore Agatha. Not through any malicious intent. Mostly because I momentarily forget she's there.

"She's a menace," Simon replies, moving to knock shoulders with Penny.  Which knocks me slightly. Not that I really mind.

Agatha's looking at us like we've all grown extra heads. She's stopped mixing her frosting and is staring, nearly open-mouthed, with her eyebrows knit together. It's like she can't quite comprehend what's going on. Which makes sense. The last time she saw us, we were at each other's throats. But she's going to have a wrinkle there if she isn't careful. On her forehead. Right between her eyebrows.

Simon must notice that something's up, because he begins to fidget.

"Ready to go, Snow?" I ask, as casually as I can manage.

He nods emphatically, grinning with what looks like relief.

"Alright then. Bunce, Wellbelove, always a pleasure."

Penny grins and backs away, waving as we make our way out of the kitchen. "Bring him back in one piece, Baz."

I grin over my shoulder at her, grabbing Simon's hand. "I make no promises."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm sorry this has taken so long, but I've had some major personal things come up in the past few weeks that have made it very difficult to write. So I'm posting the first half of this chapter. After this week I'm on Spring Break, so I should be able to write a good bit more. Check out my tumblr for a full explanation of what's been going on. Much love <3


	16. Friday, January 1, 2016

**Simon**

Break is never long enough. And I always tell mum that the day before we go back to school, but she won't hear it.

"Simon, you need a break from school, but I need a break from you," she always says. And I know she means "you" plural, as in me and Penny and the others. But it always feels a bit more personal than that.

First day back in classes I discover that I have every single class with Baz. And if I was hyper aware of him before, then this is just torture. I sit away from him a bit, a bit behind him, and find myself staring at him at times when I should probably be listening to whatever it is our professor is saying. And then I feel my face heating up ridiculously. Because, honestly, we haven't even really talked about what all of this is, what we are. To each other.

When the Minotaur asks me for a translation, I flounder. I wasn't paying attention to anything he said. Baz is sitting near the window and the sun glints off his dark hair (that I've asked him at least once to leave unslicked at least once, but he didn't listen) and I think I got caught up in it. People snigger, I stammer out something that is complete and utter bollocks, and then I feel like my face is going to light itself on fire when Baz looks back at me and grins.

How long have I had any sort of feelings for him? Because this is fitting into place too well. It's actually a little scary.

Miss Possibelf doesn't have a formal rehearsal planned for us when we get to the theater. It's mostly just checking in to make sure we practiced on our own over the holiday. Checking to see if we can be totally off-book during blocking. Baz and I could probably recite the  entire play by now, if we wanted to.  That's most of what we did over the break. Even after we started snogging. We got really good. I mean, really good.

Miss Possibelf looks at us, pointedly. We were sitting together, talking almost under our breath about something that Gareth said a few minutes ago. Something about how we've changed. And we have. It's just not something I think either of us are trying to (or wanting to) show.

"Simon, Basil," she says. "Would you two like to show us how your scenes are going?"

I feel red to my ears. But Baz smiles, cool as ice. He's never ruffled. It's infuriating.

"If you'd like, Miss," he replies. He pushes a hand through his hair. It's getting long. Past his shoulders now. I think he's growing it out for the performance. He mentioned on our date that he hates wigs. Says they're itchy and they look too fake. Which I guess is true. I had to wear a thick, curly wig a couple of years ago for a role and I swear I thought my scalp would never stop itching.

Before I can get a word out, Miss Possibelf is gesturing toward the stage. She wants us to perform.

**Baz**

I almost offer Simon my hand as I get up to go to the stage. Almost. We haven't discussed our relationship and what we're comfortable sharing with the general public yet, but I'm assuming holding hands is a no. If you can call helping him up "holding hands." I wouldn't, but you never know with Snow.

We make our way up on the stage to catcalls and wolf whistles by the rest of the cast. Heathens, the lot of them. I look over to Simon, who is red from his chin to the tips of his ears. It's work not to roll my eyes.

I bump his shoulder and ask quietly, "Orchard?"

He smiles nervously and nods. "Anything to shut Rhys and Gareth up."

"From the top?"

"That works."

We take our positions, Simon just offstage. I sit on a crate that I find upstage. We chose to self-block this scene without the famous balcony (which wasn't even originally in the play), instead with me sitting on a bench near the "house" and with Simon seeing me and hiding behind a tree. There is a window in the original stage directions, but we felt that a same-level scene would be less cliché and more intimate. Since these two were supposed to be star-crossed lovers and whatnot.

I'll be playing my violin at the beginning of this scene. That will be how Romeo notices Juliet. Her playing. There will still be a "window." Behind me. The second line of the scene will still make sense. I still haven't chosen a piece, though. The problem is that the violin wasn't a solo instrument until well after Shakespeare first published Romeo and Juliet and I can't for the life of me find anything that sounds good on my violin from that period. I'm beginning to think that I'll have to adapt a modern piece to sound a bit closer to music of the time period. Which will be taxing at best, and too much fucking work at worst.

I settle on my crate, crossing my ankles the way I expect Juliet would cross hers were she sitting on a bench, and wait the two beats that it takes Simon to gather up his bluster. Luckily, he's just flustered enough for his bluster to come forth naturally. He blusters like none other, Snow.

He bursts onto the stage, gesturing at something offstage. " _He jests at scars that never felt a wound._ " Pause. Hide behind a tree.

" _But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?_

_It is the east, and Juliet is the sun._

_Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,_

_Who is already sick and pale with grief,_

_That thou her maid art far more fair than she:_

_Be not her maid, since she is envious;_

_Her vestal livery is but sick and green_

_And none but fools do wear it; cast it off._ "

He pauses again, as it often does to gesture wildly at something in the scene, or even to add emphasis to a line. But I'm not allowed to look at him during this monologue. I can't hear him. Rather, Juliet can't hear Romeo. But if I had to guess, I'd say he's probably gesturing. Gesture makes up at least half of Simon's communication. It's something that in second year drove me absolutely mental.

" _It is my lady, O, it is my love!_

_O, that she knew she were!_

_She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?_

_Her eye discourses; I will answer it._

_I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:_ "

**Simon**

There will be _papier-mâché_ trees onstage during this scene when we perform it. But until then, I have to mime crouching behind a tree. Which is strange. But we have to work with what we have. And Baz is doing brilliantly at ignoring me. Especially considering he can fully see and hear me. He was meant for the stage. I don't know why he never auditioned before now. He's so good at it.

" _Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,_

_Having some business, do entreat her eyes_

_To twinkle in their spheres till they return._

_What if her eyes were there, they in her head?_

_The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,_

_As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven_

_Would through the airy region stream so bright_

_That birds would sing and think it were not night._

_See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!_

_O, that I were a glove upon that hand,_

_That I might touch that cheek!_ "

Baz sighs his line in as high a voice he can muster (which is pretty high), " _Ay me!_ "

I start again.

" _She speaks:_

_O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art_

_As glorious to this night, being o'er my head_

_As is a winged messenger of heaven_

_Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes_

_Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him_

_When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds_

_And sails upon the bosom of the air._ "

Romeo was either sick in love or an absolute creep. I haven't decided yet. It's something that I think I'm going to have to talk to Miss Possibelf about.  But Baz is giving the most famous line of the entire play and I realize that it doesn't matter what Romeo felt, because I must be sick in love.

" _O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?_

_Deny thy father and refuse thy name;_

_Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,_

_And I'll no longer be a Capulet._ "

I pause for a moment before looking out into the crowd. I find Rhys's eyes and ask him directly, " _Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?_ "

It gets Miss Possibelf's attention, at least. Rhys is giggling when I turn back to watch Baz.

Baz stands and runs a hand daintily through his hair. It's getting longer. I'm pretty sure he's growing it out so that he doesn't have to wear a wig during the performance. And I don't blame him. Wigs can be itchy and are really hot under the stage lights. And with the makeup that Miss Possibelf is already planning on putting him in, his own natural hair will be best. If he can get it that long before the show. Though, I honestly wouldn't put it past him to get extensions or something before he lets Miss Possibelf put him in a wig.

" _'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;_

_Thou art thyself, though not a Montague._

_What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,_

_Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part_

_Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!_ "

He stops and looks to the side, where there will be a real, blooming rose bush for the production. He brushes an imaginary flower and sighs longingly. He's so bloody convincing.

" _What's in a name? that which we call a rose_

_By any other name would smell as sweet;_

_So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,_

_Retain that dear perfection which he owes_

_Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,_

_And for that name which is no part of thee_

_Take all myself._ "

I'm so enthralled watching him that I forget my cue. I hadn't been planning on doing the whole scene anyway, but I had planned on getting farther than this. I just…Baz was looking back over his shoulder. His eyelashes were kissing his cheek and _oh that were I an eyelash, that I might touch that cheek_. Miss Possibelf clears her throat.

"Yes, thank you gentlemen. That will be enough," she says. There's applause from behind her.

I stand from my crouch and find a short curl at the back of my neck to play with. My heart is racing and I feel my cheeks flushing. Baz, on the other hand, is grinning. He's all hard lines again, and I honestly don't know how he does it. We stay on the stage while Miss Possibelf says something to the rest of the group about being as comfortable with their lines as we are before next week, then dismisses us. Baz stays behind to talk to Miss Possibelf, and I grab my bag. I mill about outside the theater doors until he comes out. He looks surprised, for some reason.

"You waited for me?" he asks. "I thought you would have left by now."

"I thought we could walk back together," I reply, trying to look anywhere but at his stupid face. With his stupid eyebrows that are elegantly arched in surprise. Like he didn't expect me to want to walk together, either. My face is still hot, but it just keeps getting hotter. It's painful, really.

**Baz**

He wanted to walk back together?

Simon's face is beet red, making the moles on his cheek and above his eye look dark in comparison. He's looking anywhere but at me and it's cute, really. He's embarrassed. I've never seen him embarrassed before. He's usually either haughty or blustering, with no in-between. It's endearing to see him flushed and speechless. I offer my hand and he takes it, still quiet and looking at the floor.

We leave the building and make our trek back to Mummers House in silence. Every time I look over at Simon, he looks like he's on the verge of saying something. Like he's thinking about it exceptionally hard, and he has been for a while. But he doesn't say anything.  It's a nice night. The stars haven't come out yet and there's a cool breeze blowing. It's been too warm for snow, but not unseasonably warm. I can hear goats braying in the distance until we reach Mummers House and they fade away.

There are people everywhere inside, catching up mostly, so  Simon drops my hand. He leads the way up the stairs to our tower, and lets me in first. He leans against the door after closing it, still looking at his feet. I don't want to push him. He's obviously struggling with something. But he's going to get a wrinkle if he keeps his eyebrows scrunched like that.

I go back to him and rest my hands on his hips. He lets me, putting his hands on mine. I press a kiss right between his eyebrows and he sighs, his tension seeming to melt away.

He looks up at me with concerned eyes.

"Baz, what are we?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, fairly certain where this is going.

"I mean, what is our relationship? What are we calling" he gestures to the barely-there space between us "this?"

"Well," I start, not sure where to start, or what to do. I brush  a bronze curl from his forehead. "What do you want it to be?"

He makes a rough noise in his chest like a growl. "I just. I want to be able to hold your hand."

"You can hold my hand, Simon."

"I mean going to rehearsal. And in the dining hall. And walking to classes," he says, running a hand through his hair. He looks up at me, his blue eyes watery. "I'm not a good boyfriend, apparently. But I want to be yours."

I can't breathe. He wants to be my boyfriend? He wants to go public? The last time we talked about this, over break, he wasn't sure he was even _gay_ , much less that he wanted to be my boyfriend in front of God and everybody. What changed? I ask him.

"The guys were talking earlier in rehearsal. And they were saying something about wondering when we got to be so buddy-buddy and when we started hanging out. And I really just wanted to turn and kiss you right then to shut them up. But I couldn't because we haven't talked about it yet and I just…I'm still not sure if I'm _gay_. But I like being with you. And I want to be able to be with you. In the dining hall. And in rehearsal. And wherever else." His voice is wavering, but his eyes are sure. And he's splotchy and red like he's going to cry. Like he's been thinking about this all day. And maybe longer.

"How long have you been thinking about this, Simon?" I ask.

"Since we got caught in the snow that first night. We got out of the car and you looked at me like I'd hung the moon or something. And I just thought, 'I want this. Whatever this is. As long as I can have it'"

I feel my heart skip. My throat is dry and I can't breathe again. And I think he's done, but he keeps talking. Simon Snow has never talked this much in his life off a stage.

"And then we went out on Christmas Eve and it was great, but we didn't hold hands or touch at all. And I really like touching you and holding your hand, Baz."

He stops talking and I take the opportunity to take his face in my hands. I kiss him, then. His lips are warm and soft and his cheeks are hot, but he puts his hands over mine and holds on like he's holding on for dear life. His tongue slips over my lips and I pull back before we get carried away. Which has happened. In front of the fire in my room after Fiona took us back home. After we'd finally dried off and we were talking about the play and how staging usually works. And how he and Penny always paint sets together. And how Miss Possibelf hates set building days more than any other day of the production because the stage is always a mess and we can't rehearse until we get it entirely cleaned up.

I look at him before he can look away. "I would love to be your boyfriend, Simon Snow."

**Simon**

I could cry from relief. I'm so relieved that I pull Baz's face back down to mine and kiss him. It's hot. Rough. His teeth bang against mine a couple of times and I laugh every one. I feel like my heart might beast out of my chest and fly away.

He pins me against the door with hips and pulls away from my lips to kiss my neck. There's a mole there that he says he's always wanted to kiss. Then I feel him rake his teeth over the soft skin at my throat and heat shoots through me. He nibbles and bites and I try talking around the deep, ragged breaths that seem to be the only ones I can muster. My head feels hot, like it might combust.

"I want you…to see-to sit…with P-Penny and I…at breakfast," I manage to get out.

"Shhh," he chides, pressing hot kisses into my collarbone. His hands are under my shirt, his fingernails raking the skin of my ribs. Everywhere he touches or kisses or bites tingles, warm, down to a place at the bottom of my stomach. A place that twists in an unfamiliar, but somehow familiar way. The same way it would twist when Baz made a particularly spectacular goal. When I could hear him practicing on his violin. And suddenly things make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all! Surprise! A present for you! So, I know it’s been a while. And I’m so sorry that it took so long. But I’ve been hella busy because *trumpet noises* I’m graduating! On Saturday! So I’ve been busy with finals an getting school squared away. And now it is! So I started writing while watching hockey earlier and I just...kept writing. And I've already started the next chapter. Lol. So, we’re moving on Monday, but I’m hoping that I’ll be able to keep writing in the evenings and things. So yeah. I’m back!


	17. Bonus Content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just wanted to share this with you guys, especially since some of you might not be on tumblr/following me on tumblr. Here's some art that I did for the story. Not that's happened yet, or something that will necessarily happen, but something I've been toying with for a while. (Might be slightly nsfw? Kait says it looks super sexual. So.)


	18. Saturday, January 2, 2016

**5:42 AM**

**Baz**

After snogging Simon for half the night, I found that I couldn't sleep, so I snuck out to the library. That was four hours ago. Now it is 5:42AM and I can't believe how utterly stupid I've been. Of course Juliet thinks she's in love with Romeo. He's the first man who's given her the time of day who wasn't told he had to by her parents. And of course she went to the ends of the earth to be with him. Because she didn't just think she was in love. She was in love.

It didn't really sink in until the third coffee and the fourth essay to point out that Juliet is twelve. But when it sunk in, it hit me like an explosion. Juliet was twelve. I was twelve when I first realized that I was - am - in love with Simon Snow. Suddenly, Juliet isn't a sniveling child playing at love. Or playing house. She's a girl. A twelve-year-old girl who found love for the first time. And it's new and exciting and Romeo is much better than Paris, if only because her parents are telling her no.  She is a girl who found something good in the middle of a violent political feud, and clung to it until her dying breath. That is something to be admired.

After that realization, finding a piece that is true to the time period seems like a cop-out. It doesn't matter if it's from the time period when Shakespeare wrote the play because that doesn't make it true to Juliet's character. Which is what Miss Possibelf has been telling me from the start. I've been a complete idiot.

A yawn forces itself from me and I am reminded that I've been an idiot who hasn't slept yet. So I pack up my laptop and gather the books I've been perusing to place on the returns rack. It'll take me at least ten minutes to make my way back to Mummer's House, and I am not looking forward to it. The only thing keeping me from sleeping in the stacks is the knowledge that, when I get back, I can curl up in bed with Simon.

**8:16AM**

**Simon**

There's a warm weight across my stomach when I wake up, and considering the vice-like grip it has on me, I'd wager it's Baz. I lift his arm just enough to be able to roll over and roll to face him. His breathing is deep and slow, and his dark eyelashes are fluttering  like he's dreaming. He looks too peaceful to wake up, but the clock on his bedside table says that breakfast started fifteen minutes ago and my stomach is growling.

He shifts and pulls me closer, his fist full of my night shirt at the small of my back. I wrap my arms around him and definitely don't take advantage of the angle I have to place at least one hand on his arse. I place a kiss on each eyelid before shifting to whisper in his ear, "Is that a flashlight in your trousers, or are you just happy to see me?"

" 'S a flashlight," he slurs, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile. "Half an hour more, yeah? I didn't get to sleep until six."

"Six?" I exclaim. "Bloody hell, Baz. What were you doing until six?"

"Research," he groans. "Keep your voice down? I have a headache."

"Christ, Baz," I hiss. "Go back to sleep."

I try to roll over, but Baz hugs me tighter to him.

"Don’t go," he moans, pleading. "You're so warm."

"You only like me for my body heat," I tease, pressing a kiss to his forehead. If he thinks I'm warm, I must be a furnace. Because he feels warm to me.

"No, I like you because you're you," he sighs. "Your body heat is just an added bonus."

I laugh and bump my forehead against his. "Go to sleep, Baz."

"I don't know if I can, now," Baz replies, opening his dark eyes to look at me. He's sort of squinting, so his nose it a bit wrinkled, and it's honestly the cutest face I've ever seen him make.

"Doesn't your head hurt?" I ask.

He nods. "A bit. But it'll be fine."

"Do you want to go to breakfast, then?"

"Are you always hungry?" he asks. Then he must realize what he asked and shakes his head, which ends with his hair ruffled and his face half in the pillow. "That's a stupid question. Of course you are."

Baz sits up, and I let him, letting my hands fall to the bed. He looks at me with wonder in his eyes, like he's seeing me for the first time. No one's ever looked at me like that before. Not even Agatha while we were together. It's like he can't believe that I exist. Which sometimes I can't believe either, but that isn't the point. The point is that it makes heat rise in my chest, then my cheeks, and I feel like he's looking through to my center.

I go to cover my face with my arm, only to have Baz pin my arm down and kiss the mole on my neck. Which tickles. Which makes me only squirm a little bit.

"I need to go to Hampshire this afternoon. Do you want to go with me?" he murmurs into my neck. Which is odd, because we just came back. Why would he need to go home so soon? I ask him.

He sits up and sighs, "I started playing the violin because my grandfather played. It was magical. He could weave stories with his music. And a lot of his music is bound in books in our library. He's got original pieces, arrangements that he did of famous works for plays or weddings or any number of other occasions. Anyway, I wanted to look through his books to see if I could find something for the play."

**Baz**

Simon smiles like the fucking sun. "I'd love to go with you, Baz."

His ridiculous curls fan out in a bronze halo that almost shines in the morning light. He is ridiculous.

"Alright. Do you want to leave after breakfast, then?" I suggest lightly.

"Sounds perfect," he replies, finally sitting up.

That's when I notice the gigantic red and purple mark on his neck. I don't even remember doing that. But it's lovely. I get up and stride over to my wardrobe, digging out a nice gray scarf. It's soft with a fringe that I enjoy playing with absently in the winter. I toss it to him.

"You'll want to wear that," I say before making my way into the bathroom. I don't close the door; I haven't since we got back. Not if I'm only going to wash my hands or face or anything. There doesn't seem to be much of a point anymore. I also decided to try leaving my toiletries out on the counter for a change, which is what I'm used to at home. So far Simon's only touched anything to open up everything and smell it.

The noise he makes when he finally looks in a mirror is priceless. It's somewhere between a yelp and a squeal.

"You didn't tell me you'd left a mark!" he exclaims, bursting into the bathroom. The spot is just under his mole. Because it was dark and I missed.

"What did you think I was doing?" I snort. "Drinking your blood?"

"I don't know! It felt good…" he whines. He's in the bathroom now, staring at his neck in the mirror beside me. At my  second snort, he hisses, "Baz! You gave me a hickey!"

"Do you want to give me one? So we're even?" I ask, offering my neck.

"No!" he huffs, pushing me away. I chuckle and continue washing my face while he agonizes over the mark in the mirror.

"I'm never going to hear the end of this," he moans. "Penny is never going to let me live this down."

"That's why I gave you the scarf, Simon," I sigh before beginning to wipe away the soap on my face with a warm, damp cloth. He isn't amused by this. He doesn't look like he'll bluster, but sometimes you don't know with Simon Snow. I dry off with a clean towel and turn to face him, putting my hands on his shoulder.

"I will field any and all snide or otherwise suggestive comments from your sister," I say, trying to keep eye contact with him. "Deal?"

He looks down at his feet, considering, then nods. "Yeah, okay. Deal. But you get to do all of the explaining."

"So what's our story?"

**9:26AM**

**Penny**

Simon and Baz show up to breakfast late, holding hands and grinning like the sun. Simon's wearing an expensive-looking scarf that must be Baz's because Simon doesn't own a scarf. Not that I've ever seen. It's piled high on his neck, dark grey with a fringe that hangs down to his stomach. As they get closer, I notice a red spot peeking up over the scarf. Oh.

"So what did you two get up to last night?" I ask pointedly as they sit down. Simon turns red and busies himself with applying a liberal amount of butter to a scone. Baz grins and sits beside Simon, glancing at the scarf.

"We went to rehearsal, then called it an early night," Baz explains, lying through his perfect teeth. He takes the butter knife from Simon and puts it on Simon's plate. The scone is now more butter than scone. And if magic wasn't completely ridiculous, I'd say he used it to get that much butter because I didn't have that much butter at the table.

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" I laugh. I can see the hickey on Simon's neck. Or, I could before he adjusted the scarf. The question isn't so much did they do something, it's more what did they do? Not that that's any of my business. I just enjoy making Simon squirm. Because he's my brother and I love him.

"Indeed, it is, Penelope," Baz says simply. He pours himself a glass of milk from a pitcher on the table and takes a drink. Simon is pushing around the scone on his plate. Which isn't like him. Normally, if he were nervous, he would be eating excessively. He would've finished that scone and three more already. What is going on with him?

"Simon, you'd think you were planning on having a virgin sacrifice with how shifty you're acting," I tease.

"I'm not shifty," he exclaims, "you're shifty!"

He then promptly turns beet red and turns back to his scone, which has long since gone cold. Huh. I wonder if Simon is still a virgin.

**Baz**

Simon actually finally eats his scone while Penny and I chat about rehearsal last night. She goes absolutely nuts when I tell her about how the cast applauded when we finished the piece of the orchard scene on stage ("Did Miss Possibelf applaud, too?" "She didn't?!" "I don't believe her." " _I_ would have applauded."), pointedly asks a few more questions about what Simon and I got up to last night (Simon nearly chokes), and proceeds to huff dejectedly when I skirt the questions with my own questions about her relationship with Micah. Really, she makes it too easy.

When Simon finishes his breakfast and Penny decides to go to the library rather than back to her room, I gently remind Simon that we need to head out if we're going to Hampshire and coming back this evening.

"Do you need to call ahead?" he asks, buttoning a coat that I'm fairly certain is a hand-me-down from the oldest Bunce boy.

"No," I respond. "Daphne won't mind us popping in and my father won't be home from work until after we've gone."

Simon seems to accept the response and nods. "Alright then. On to Hampshire."

**2:03PM**

**Baz**

I'd thought about driving. But then I realized I didn't feel like it. The train ride wasn't awful, and Simon acted like it was his first time on a train the entire time. It was quite cute, actually. He plastered himself to the window, 'ooo'-ing and 'aaah'-ing the whole way. I think he even squealed about a rabbit once. But otherwise, getting home was rather uneventful. Daphne was surprised to see us. She wasn't expecting me back for at least another week.

When I tell her that I need to see Grandfather's music books she seems even more surprised, but she leaves us alone in the library all the same. While I sit on the floor looking through the books, Simon sits behind me in a plush chair toying with my hair. ("You have so much of it, Baz!" "It's so thick!" "How do you keep it from tangling?" I usually gel it back, that's how.) My grandfather was very fond of Bach, so finding the piece I'm looking for is going to be difficult at best and impossible at worst. But I don't want to think about that.

Grandfather kept his music in no particular order - or at least none that I can or could see - so I can't rely on alphabetization to help me with the search. I almost decide to hand Simon a stack and tell him to start looking, but I don't think he would be of much help. I also don't think I'm quite ready for him to see so much of my home life just yet. Because of course he saw what my family is like of Christmas, but he hasn't seen the underlying things. The things that make up my heritage. He hasn't yet been privy to the fact that my father's side of the family are farmers and that my mother's side of the family have roots in more countries than God. And that I'm from the Egyptian branch of the Pitch family. He doesn’t know that I gained my love of music from listening to my grandfather practice from the cracked door of my room late at night. And he doesn't need to know. Not yet.

I've gone through four books when he finally asks, "What exactly is it you're looking for, Baz?"

I sigh. I knew it was coming. He couldn't possibly sit through a day of me perusing books without wondering what I'm looking for. Without starting conversation. Because Simon Snow Bunce learned from his sister the nasty habit of never knowing when to shut up.

"My grandfather did an arrangement of the second movement of Bach's Partita No. 2 in D minor for a wedding once. I believe it was for a distant cousin," I explain, leaning my head back to rest on his feet. He doesn't know how to properly sit in chairs, either. He always has his legs folded up under him like a child. "Anyway, I'm looking for that arrangement."

Running his hand through my hair still he offers, "Well, maybe I can help. How did he have his books arranged?"

"I have no idea, Snow," I groan. "There's no alphabetization, no arrangement by composer, no labels, nothing. I have absolutely no idea how these are organized. So finding one arrangement is going to be nearly impossible."

I can feel him frown without having to look at him. Simon wears his heart on his sleeve and even the most casual observer can tell what he's thinking at least eighty-nine percent of the time.

"Whatever you're thinking," I sigh, "don't. I've already thought of it."

"What if he organized them by the event he played them for? Like, one for weddings, one for funerals, or whatever else he played at," Simon suggests.

Why in God's name had I never thought of that?

I flip to the end of the book that I'd been browsing through. I won't remember the first pieces in the books, but I'll remember the last. This one is birthdays. The next is funerals. I go through six different books before I find the last arrangement he played at a wedding. It's a modern piece, nothing I can use or even really recognize. Flipping back through to the middle, I find it. It's a bit faded and the page is yellowed, but there it is. The Corrente of Bach's Partita No. 2. D minor. His timing is a bit slower than it's normally played, more deliberate. I think it was actually used at the reception for the bride's father-daughter dance. It was beautiful. Even slowed down it reminded me of springtime, of birds flitting through the trees chirping, of rolling down hills of green grass, of whispering streams, and of love and life. A celebration of love and life. That is Juliet.

"It'll take a while to learn," I say, finally breaking out of my memory. "But it's absolute perfection."

Simon looks down over my shoulder, clearly trying to decipher the marks on the page.

"I have no idea what any of that means," he says, resting his chin on the top of my head. "But if you think it's perfect, I'm sure it is."

**Simon**

Baz looks up at me and smiles, presses a kiss to my lips that sends a shock right through me, then quickly stands and strides out of the room. It's like he's found a new purpose in life.

**8:22PM**

**Baz**

Daphne made us sit through dinner with my father before letting us leave. So I had to explain to him why I was looking through Grandfather's books and what I was using the piece for. Before we'd even gotten to dessert, he told us to leave. Daphne followed us to the door and apologized profusely. But it wasn't her fault. And I wasn't angry with her.

"I'm angry because my father would rather I was dead than gay," I hiss at Simon over dinner. He's been asking almost nonstop since we got back. Penny has been looking on, oddly quiet about the whole thing.

"Why do you say that?" she asks.

Fantastic.

"Because it's true. He'd rather I'd died with my mother because being out and being a politician's son don't mix. It's bad for his image."

I sigh, "People already scrutinize, say he's not qualified to be in his office because his family are all farmers. They say that he only married my mother because she was well-off. A gay son? Well that's just the icing on the cake."

Penny frowns and I look away. I don't need her pity. I need to eat and go to bed. Or practice.

**Penny**

Baz finishes eating without another word then storms off back to his and Simon's room. Simon's pretty quiet, too, while Baz eats and after he leaves. I don’t know what happened in Hampshire today, but whatever it is it wasn't good.

"Simon, what happened at Baz's house?" I ask quietly. Half the school saw him storm out. People are whispering, watching. Romeo and Juliet just had their first public spat. It'll be all over the school by morning.

He sighs, "We went to find a piece of music from his granddad's old violin books. His step-mum made us stay for dinner. And when Baz mentioned something about the play, his dad blew up at him. Told him to get out. To leave and not come back."

He's quiet, barely above a whisper. He won't look at me, which is fine. He's been through a lot.

"I'm gonna go, Penny," he sighs, getting up and taking his and  Baz's plates.

I let him. Tell him good night as he walks by, touching my shoulder as he goes. Sometimes at Watford, when he's especially stressed by the play or classes, I find myself missing Simon. He's so vibrant and alive most days, but when stress is high he's withdrawn and moody. Sometimes he gets angry, sometimes he's sad. But mostly he's just quiet. And I miss bright, vibrant, alive Simon.

**Simon**

The room is dark when I make it back in. I'd guess that Baz hasn't made it back yet. I turn the light on and take the scarf that I've been wearing all day off. I've had an entire week's worth of excitement in a day. Last night, Baz and I were happy. We were so happy. Laughing, joking, kissing. There was a lot of kissing. Touching. It was good. We were good. And I thought that going to Hampshire would be fine. That we would go and come back and Baz would start practicing his violin piece. But it wasn't fine.

I make my way to the bathroom, turn on the shower, then I look in the mirror. The hickey on my neck has darkened over the day. It isn't dark red anymore, it's purplish like it hadn't been done forming this morning. It's a little sore, but otherwise I wouldn't know it was there. Even though it's an ugly little purple mark, I smile looking at it. I can't help it. I look at it and think of Baz giving it to me. I think of him raking his teeth along the soft skin of my neck and how it felt so good and so right. I think of my skin feeling so hot I might combust, and Baz's breath in my ear, hot and wet. Until last night, I hadn't imagined anything could feel as good as that had. Whatever _that_ was.

I get in the shower without testing the temperature and I am promptly scalded. Not really, but it's entirely too hot. But maybe that's okay, I think as I turn it down. Maybe if it's hot enough I can distract myself from thinking about Baz. Just for a bit. Not that I don't want to think about him. Since we first kissed in his library, I haven't thought of much else. Of course I've thought about the play. And school. But those are things I have to think about.  What I want to think about is Baz.

His hands. His hair brushing my shoulders while he kisses the mole on my neck. The smell of his soap.

**12:42AM**

**Baz**

When I return to the room, it's dark and I can hear Simon mumbling in his sleep. The window is open, as is usual when he sleeps, and it's fucking freezing. I'm too tired to shower, even though I know I need it. And I'm too tired to bother closing the window. There's a reason I keep three blankets on my bed.

I'd thought about talking to Simon. About waking him up and explaining and apologizing and begging for forgiveness if I had to. But seeing him there, sleeping, I want nothing more than to curl up with him. To smell his shampoo and feel his skin hot against mine.

But I don't. I put my violin case away, change into my pajamas, and lay down, letting the cool air on my face lull me to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Birthday, Simon Snow! I give you: ANGST. More than I wanted to. But. I did slap Baz in the face with some character development. So yeah. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and you don’t hate me too much! I’m also going to say here that I’ve just started a new job and so my chapters might not be as regular as I’d like them to be. But I will keep you up-to-date as best I can. Let me know what you think!


	19. Bonus Content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a slightly NSFW colored version of the drawing a posted a few (two?) chapters back! <3

 

 


	20. Bonus Content: R+J Outtakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s been so long since I started writing the last chapter that I’m scrapping it. I didn’t like the feel of it, I didn’t like the dialogue, it just wasn’t clicking. So this is the bit that I’m cutting. I figured Id give you guys something while I work on rewriting this chapter. And hopefully it’ll come a bit more easily than it was before since I’ve had time to cool off and rest. Let me know what you guys think. What clicks, what doesn’t, I’d love the feedback. <3

**Sunday, January 3, 2016**

**Simon**

 

When I wake up, the window is closed but it's still freezing in the room. The sun is streaming in through the open curtains and a spattering of snowflakes flutter by on a light breeze. I regret not wearing a shirt last night. I look over to Baz's bed to see him sitting up with a pen in hand, making notes on his copies of his grandfather's music.

"Morning," he says as timidly as is possible for a pompous arse.

"Morning," I respond, getting up to go to the loo.

When I get out, he's still sitting there. His shoulders are slightly hunched and he's not writing anymore. He looks up when I close the door behind me.

"I'm sorry for storming off last night," he says quietly, still looking at his lap.

"S'okay," I mutter, scratching at the back of my neck. "I'm sorry I got upset at you for it. You had every right to be mad at me. I was being a prat."

"You were," Baz acknowledges, grinning. He turns to me and raises an eyebrow. I haven't gotten dressed yet. And my shorts are hanging low on my hips. He licks his lips.

"I know," I say. What he told us, though, is still bothering me. How could anyone wish their kid was dead? Just because they're gay? There are worse things in the world than being gay. He could be on drugs. Or he could have a gambling addiction. Or whoever got his mother could have gotten him too.

"I don't really know how things are for you at home," I start, almost scared to keep going, "but if you ever want to talk about it, I can be a good listener. Or if you need to get away, you can stay with me and Penny. We're gonna be getting our own place after we graduate. We can get a place with a spare room. Or you could stay in my room, if you wanted-"

Baz's lips are on mine before I can finish my thought. But he pulls away too quickly and his smile is too bright.

"I don't need to talk about it now," he says. "But I might tell you one day, Simon. If you're good and eat all your vegetables."


	21. Sunday, January 3, 2016

**Simon** ****  
  
For the first time in a very long time, I wake up before Baz. It's hard to get up before his early morning football practices, but since he hurt his knee he's been getting up later and later. And I guess after last night, today's the day.    
  
It's absolutely freezing, so I close the window before making my way to brush my teeth and wash my face. It only takes five minutes or so, but when I'm done Baz is awake and getting dressed. He looks and absolute wreck. Of course, he hasn't showered or brushed his hair yet, so that contributes to the overall wrecked look, but that isn't it. He looks pale and drawn, like he's come down with something.   
  
"You look like shit," I say, leaning on the doorframe.   
  
He sighs, "I'm aware, thank you, Simon."   
  
He yawns and stretches, long enough that his shirt lifts and I can see the dark skin of his stomach. I think if I weren't still a bit perturbed at him, for running off, I'd probably find it very attractive. But I am still a bit perturbed at him, so I just stay leaning on the door.   
  
I watch him search his wardrobe for something to wear (a beige cashmere jumper and dark jeans), then move aside to let him in the bathroom. I want to follow him, to corner him and demand to know what happened, why he blew up and then ran off, but if there's anything I learned from my relationship with Agatha, it's that that's not the way to communicate. I guess part of my problem is that I don't understand what Baz meant when he said that his father would rather he were dead. Or, rather, I don't understand why his father would rather he were dead. And I want to. But it seems like Baz doesn't want to explain. Which is also not how you communicate. I think that's why Agatha and I didn't work. We didn't communicate.    
  
I don't want that with Baz. I don't want to break up when we've just started, just because we can't bloody talk to each other. I think Penny would probably tell me to be open and honest with Baz. Explain that I just want to understand so that maybe I can help. Or at least know what not to say. And I guess I can do that. It would be the responsible thing to do. And maybe apologize for being a prat on the train home last night. Yeah, that'll be a good start.    
  
Baz comes out of the bathroom dressed and with his hair pulled back in a bun. It's probably the most attractive thing I've seen in my life. When did I start being attracted to long hair? Probably when Baz started growing his out, honestly.    
  
He puts his pajamas in his clothes basket and comes to sit next to me on the foot of my bed. I wasn't expecting that.    
  
"I'm sorry for snapping last night," he says quietly. "And for running off."    
  
I wasn't expecting that either.    
  
"Well, it's my fault, innit?" I say, nudging his shoulder with mine. "I must've asked at least fifty times what was the matter."    
  
"Try at least a hundred," he scoffs. I can hear the smile in his voice and it seems like he at least isn't angry with me. "But you were just trying to help. And I shouldn't get angry with you for that."    
  
Well shit. There went my explanation. Instead of pressing it, I find his hand and hold it in both of mine.    
  
"So let me help?" I ask.    
  
**Baz**   
  
Simon Snow is a fixer. He likes to fix things, even if they aren't broken. And I am very much broken, so it was only a matter of time before he tried to fix me. I guess I'm just not used to anyone trying to fix me, caring enough to try. Not say that Fiona didn't care enough to try. She cared about me more than my father did. She just thought, I suppose, that I would come to her.    
  
I sigh, "I told you about my mother's death, right?"    
  
Simon nods. It was fifth year and I was completely shitfaced, but I do remember telling him.    
  
"I think that a part of my father died with her. He buried himself in his work, I barely ever saw him. I'm lucky to have had a nanny, otherwise I probably would have starved." I pause. It's difficult to tell a story like this and know which parts to keep in and which parts to leave out. But I press on, better to tell too much than not enough.    
  
"He forgot Christmas that year. I thought that Santa Claus had forgotten me, too. I realize now that it was always my mother who played Santa Claus. Fiona came over later with presents. She and Nico spent the day with me that day. They spent most holidays with me after mother died. And then I was sent away to Watford, and I was stuck living with you. I thought I hated you first year. I would go to Fiona's for the weekend and tell her all the things you'd done to piss me off that week. And then I'd come back for another week and do it all again. Fiona was the first person I told when I realized that I was actually in love with you."    
  
I chuckle. "She said to me 'I've been listening to you bitch about that boy for a year and a half, Baz. It's about bloody time you realized it!' I thought, maybe since Fiona didn't care, my father wouldn't either. But when I told him, he threw me out. I stayed with Fiona the next couple of summers. I heard her and Nico talk multiple times about finding a lawyer and adopting me. She said she could kill my father for the way he was treating her sister's son. But she didn't. It's probably for the best; she wouldn't do well in prison."    
  
Simon, who (miracle of miracles) had been silent up til now, lets out a snort of laughter. I grin for a moment, but it's gone too soon.    
  
"It maybe 2016, but there are still people who believe that gay is the absolute worst thing you can be. And, unfortunately, my father is one of them. He would rather have a dead wife and no son than a dead wife and a gay son. To him, I am the reason she died, and I am an utter waste of life."    
  
"That can't be true!" Simon protests.    
  
"But it is," I respond. I'm too tired for this. "If she hadn't tried to save me, she'd still be here. And I can't even carry on the Pitch line."    
  
Simon is quiet for a while, then he turns to look at me, holding my hand in both of his. He kisses it, looking at me earnestly, and says "You are not a waste of life. And if your father believes that, then he doesn't deserve you. You're brilliant, Baz. You've been at the top of the class every year. You can be anything you want after Watford. And you are a genuinely good person. You can be a right prick if you really want, but so can the rest of us. And if being gay cancels out all of that, there's no hope for sods like me, is there?"    
  
He kisses my hand again, smiling, and I almost believe him.    
  
**Simon**

 

"There isn't any hope for you, Simon Snow," Baz chuckles. And I think he feels better because his smile touches his eyes.    
  
"I was hoping you wouldn't notice," I respond, grinning back.   
  
Baz looks down at the floor and I can't help asking, "So, do you still go to Fiona's for breaks and stuff?"   
  
He nods. "Yeah, I usually spend the summer with her and Nico. I'll visit Daphne occasionally, but I only stay for an extended time at Christmas. It's better that way. I get my fill of my father for the year and then I don't have to see him again until the next one."   
  
"That's horrible," I mutter, and then quickly backtrack because Baz turns to look at me with this furious look in his eyes. "I just mean that it's horrible that you can't be around him. Because he's your dad, y'know? Dads aren't supposed to treat their kids like garbage."   
  
"You're probably right," he sighs, his eyes dropping back to the floor. I don't know if it's just a reflex or if there's something really interesting down there, but he's looking pretty intently.    
  
"But at least you have Fiona and Nico, right? And Daphne is supportive?"   
  
"Yeah," Baz agrees.    
  
"And now you have me, and Penny. You'll never get rid of Penny, I'm sure. She really seems to like you."    
  
Baz chuckles, "She does."   
  
"So according to Penny's rubric, you have more than enough people in your life to care about, even without your dad," I say.    
  
"What do you mean?" he asks, eyebrows scrunched together. It's cute. As cute as Baz can be, anyway.   
  
"Penny and Mum always say that you shouldn't care for any more people than you could defend from an angry tiger. I think by their logic, that's about three. So, with Daphne, Fiona, Nico, Penny, and me, two someones in your life would get eaten by that figurative tiger," I explain.    
  
Baz laughs. Actually laughs. He grips his stomach and rocks forward, shoulders shaking from the force of it. It's the most I think I've ever seen him laugh. When he looks back up at me, there are tears at the corners of his eyes. He wipes then away and breathes, "That is, I think, one of the silliest things I have ever heard. It's fantastic."   
  
"I never said it made much sense," I shrug. I can't keep myself from smiling.    
  
Baz seems like he's feeling better, so I decide it's probably time to get dressed. So I do. It's nothing as snazzy as Baz's outfit, just a gray jumper and jeans, but Baz looks at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It's enough to make me blush. Because when all's said and done, who doesn't want someone to look at them like that? Liars, that's who.    
  
He takes my hand and leads me down the narrow staircase of our turret, and something feels lighter between us. Maybe it's my own relief, maybe it's Baz's, or maybe it's layer of secrets and miscommunication that we shed together just now. Whatever it is, I can't be bothered to care. Because right now the sun is shining, the winter air is crisp and inviting and Baz's hand is in mine, leading me God knows where. It's probably just to breakfast, but that isn't really the point. I'd follow him anywhere.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!! An update!! I’ve been working on this chapter for a few days, getting the dialogue right, making sure I liked the feel of the chapter, etc. I do have the rest of the story outlined. So, hopefully, it won’t be too long between chapters anymore. That said, I do still work (full time now! Yay!!), and I do still have adult things going on in my life, so it may be a couple weeks between chapters. Just hopefully not months.


	22. Monday, January 4, 2016

**Baz**

The air is cold and crisp, and Simon's hand is warm and soft in mine as we walk to the dining hall. He stayed in my bed just a bit longer than usual last night, played with my hair a bit more than normal. I pretended that it wasn't because of the conversation we had nearly twenty-four hours ago. Honestly, I've been trying to get that conversation out of my mind since I woke up at three a.m. and couldn't see anything but Simon's golden curls behind my eyelids.

I don't regret that conversation. We needed to have it. Simon deserved an explanation for my outburst. And I needed someone to confide in. Except that we haven't talked about it since. Not that I think Simon is avoiding the topic. More, it feels like he's giving me space. Letting me make the next move. Which is considerate. But also a bit unsettling. It's uncharacteristically considerate of him.

We arrive in the dining hall to find Penelope already waiting for us at our usual table. She already has a large plate of scones and butter and a pitcher of juice, though I have no idea where she found the pitcher. Last I checked, those weren't available for student use.

"Baz! Simon! I was beginning to think I'd made you both up!" she exclaims. "Where were you two yesterday?"

Simon fiddles with the hair at the back of his neck, the tips of his ears having gone a stunning shade of pink.

"We decided to have a bit of a lie-in," I reply, sinking into the chair beside her. "We were thinking about having one today, as well, but we both have classes."

Simon chokes on a rather large mouthful of scone. It's not like I meant it in any sort of sexual context. Which is what I'm presuming he thought I meant, judging by the choking and immediate reddening of every other visible part of his face. Penny just laughs.

"I wish I had the luxury. Trixie and her girlfriend decided to have a lie-in yesterday, so I had to relocate to Agatha's room," she complains, pouring a glass of juice and handing it to Simon. Him choking is obviously something she's grown accustomed to. I'll have to file that away for later. I don't know if I'll ever need to know that Penny has grown accustomed to Simon choking at the breakfast table, but I just might.

We never made it to breakfast yesterday because we took an extended walk around the grounds and missed it. We then ate a late breakfast courtesy of Cook Pritchard, and weren't hungry at lunch. And by the time tea and supper came around, we weren't at all thinking about eating. But Simon did insist on sneaking down to the kitchens again after around midnight. So at least we ate two meals.

**Simon**

I'll never understand the fascination that Baz and Penny seem to have with teasing me. Not that I think Penny actually said anything, but Baz sure did. And everything is innuendo with him. Which normally would be fine. Penny does the exact same thing. But he's Baz and it seems like he does it to make me blush. Or choke. Depending on whether or not I'm eating at the time.

"How is Agatha?" I finally manage to ask after a few lungfulls of air. Pieces of the scone are still stuck, though, so it comes out a bit raspier than I would have liked.

Thing is, I haven't really seen Agatha since before Christmas, and even then I didn't really get to chat with her, so I feel like it's probably considerate to ask after her.

"She's fine," Penny replies. "She's been a bit cagey recently, though. I can't quite figure out why, but I'll get to the bottom of it eventually. She seems happier, at least."

That's good for Agatha. I say as much, and Baz gives me this look. It's sort of halfway between puzzled and amused, but maybe with a bit of smug mixed in. Smug is not an attractive look on Baz. His mouth quirks up on one side and one eyebrow raises, usually on the same side, if not both of them. It's an "I told you so" without the words.

And just who the he'll am I kidding? I haven't found a single unattractive look on Baz. Unless you count the drunken catacombs incident. But I don't.

Baz and Penny chat for a bit and before we know it, just as I'm thinking I'd like to spend the rest of my life just like this really, it's time to go to class.

"See you at lunch, Simon!" Penny waves as she and Baz head out. They have their morning classes together.

I stay just long enough to tidy up the dishes and then head to class. I have history first thing. And I think I'd rather die.

**4:22pm**  
**Baz**

Simon and I make it to rehearsal only a few minutes late, though Miss Possibelf would probably tell anyone showing up to her class that late to just go home. Miss Possibelf is a stickler for punctuality. Miss Possibelf needs to learn to lighten up a bit.

Even though I can see her jaw working to tell us to go home, she only gestures for us to sit before she continues with her greeting for the day. Something involving Simon and I being thoroughly unnecessary for today's rehearsal anyway. She dimisses those of us whose parts she don't be working on, but Simon and I choose to stay. As an example.

Most of the chorus is still not off-book. That's what she's going to work on. So Simon and I move to seats at the back. Close enough that we can still hear the rehearsal, but far enough away that we don't disturb them chatting. Really, we're almost at the very back. And most of what we do us chatting. But we stayed and aren't distracting rehearsal, so that's what really matters.

"So what was it like? Growing up with the Bunces?" I've been meaning to ask for ages. Partly because I wonder what it was like for Simon to grow up the headmistress's son, and partly because I can't imagine what it must have been like growing up with all of the Bunce children.

Simon shrugs, a long, full-body thing that he seems to draw from the bottom of his very soul. I don't think I've seen a shrug like that in ages. Simon used to only communicate in shrugs. At least with me. I don't think he's shrugged at me since we had it out on the stairs after I was cast as Juliet. I suppose that means we've come a long way.

"I guess it was alright," Simon finally replies. "I mean, it wasn't anything special. After Mum took over as headmistress, we saw her a lot less. And since Premal was a student, Penny and I were home alone a lot. Pacey was still a baby, so he stayed here with Mum. But by the time he was old enough to stay home with us and go to school, Penny and I had started at Watford."

He stops, watching Miss Possibelf give some instruction to Garreth before he continues. "Holidays were always fun, though."

"Yeah?" I try not to sound jealous. Since Father married Daphne, things have gotten better. The holidays happy again. But for a few years there, they were when we were painfully reminded that my mother wasn't there.

"Yeah," Simon replies, grinning. His eyes are still focused on the stage, but the smile his grin fades into is wistful. After Agatha and I started dating, she would come over to make biscuits. And we would all stay up and watch Christmas films until one of us passed out. Or all of us did. That happened a couple of times. And you saw Agatha still comes over. But then Christmas Eve Penny and I have to round up the babies and make sure they go to sleep. Because if we don't, Priya will lay under the tree until Father Christmas comes."

He turns to me and winks.

I can't help it, I lean in to kiss the stupid grin off his face. But, of course, Miss Possibelf chooses then to end rehearsal.

"I'll send out a reminder through your student emails, but I would like to remind you all now that primary set building happens tomorrow, Thursday, and Saturday. Tomorrow and Thursday are mandatory, so I will see you all there," Miss Possibelf announces. "You are all dismissed."

**Simon**

The walk back is cold and dark, and I can see my breath, but I wouldn't put mittens on for the world. Baz's hand isn't any warmer than mine, but it's comforting. He's comforting. And isn't that a new sensation? Is this what it feels like to love someone? Obviously I love Penny and Mum and Dad. And I think I loved Agatha. But Baz is different. He's comforting and warm and he feels like home. I pull him closer and practically hug his arm. He laughs at me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eight years later and I have a new chapter for you all!! (It's a bit short, but I'm afraid that's par for the course with me.) Thank you so much for sticking with me through my extended writer's block. Turns out this chapter has been finished for a bit just chilling in my OneNote. I thought I had posted everything I had finished, but I guess not. I'm pretty close to being finished with the next chapter, so hopefully I'll get it done and posted soon. And I can't make any promises about my posting schedule after next chapter, but I do have an outline for the rest of the fic. Again, thank you guys so much for sticking with me. Hopefully I can get this finished this year! (And if you've read my oneshot Five Mornings, keep a lookout for new content in that 'verse. I'm working on something I think is gonna be fun!) Much love! <3


	23. Tuesday, January 5, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought about changing the rating of the fic after posting this chapter. However, I don't think I'm going to. Things get a little mature this chapter. You have been warned, reader discretion is advised. <3

**Simon**

Waiting for the end of classes is a nightmare. Sitting through classes is a nightmare. And I suppose they're a nightmare because it's my favorite day of the year when it comes to the play. It's the first day of set building. I just want it to be time already. I want to go to the theater and sit on the stage with Penny and Baz and paint bricks onto wooden towers, or whatever it is we're paining bricks onto. I don't think there's going to be a tower, actually, since we've gotten rid of the balcony. We may be painting leaves onto trees.

It's also one of the only days when the actors and stage hands get to just hang out. We turn on musicals and sing and paint and it's just so much fun.

When the bell finally rings for tea, I bolt from my seat. I run full on across the lawn to the dining hall. I don't know why. Maybe because somewhere in the back of my mind I think that getting to tea faster will make it go faster. Or maybe it's just to get the nervous energy out of my system. At any rate, Professor Minos shouts at me as I run out the door, and I only laugh and keep running.

I beat Penny and Baz to the dining hall and fall into my seat at our table, huffing and puffing just trying to catch my breath. Running was a stupid idea.

Baz and Penny show up a moment later, chatting about something that happened in their last class. They stop when they notice me in my seat, hunched over and gasping for breath.

"Christ, Simon, did you run a marathon?" Penny exclaims, setting her bag down.

"Was there a race we didn't know about?" Baz adds. "Did you lose?"

He's standing over me, his hand just in front of my face. I nudge it with my head and he runs it through my hair.

"Couldn't sit still through class," I try to explain. "Had to get it out."

"The demon in your shoes?" Penny prompts, and it's lucky she's across the table from me, or I would've pinched her.

"Nerves," I say. I feel less like there's an elephant sitting on my chest.

"Why are you nervous?" Baz asks, brushing my hair away from my forehead.

"I think he meant nervous energy," Penny explains. "He's excited for set building. It's his favorite day of the year."

"Why?"

"Because it's the first time that the cast gets to just hang out. It's when we get to know each other outside of rehearsal." I can't really explain it well. "You just have to experience it."

"Alright, Snow," Baz grins.

**Baz**

It's impossible for anyone to concentrate on anything at tea with Simon's incessant bouncing. He acts like he's spring loaded. Or like he's a wind up toy that's been wound too tight. Which, to be fair, he probably is. He shoots to his feet at exactly five minutes to normal rehearsal time. And bounces until Penelope and I get up and follow him to the theatre.

When we get there, nearly everyone else is already there, and Miss Possibelf has cans of paint and large wooden boards of varying shapes on the stage.

"Alright everyone," she booms. She's normally very soft spoken, but with the noise level, I suppose even she would have to yell. "There are paintbrushes and rollers in bags in front of the stage. Remember, we need trees, benches, fences, and buildings. Most of the shapes are already cut out, so pick one and get to it!"

Simon and Penelope choose the trees. They grab cans of green, brown, and yellow paint and gesture for me to grab brushes. There's a crowd of people around the brushes. Not just the actors, the stage hands as well. And I think it's actually the first time I've seen most of them. There hasn't been much call for them without the sets being ready, I suppose.

Rhys hands me a few brushes-- three large ones and several smaller ones. I nod my thanks and turn back to the stage where Simon and Penelope have taken up a rather large section of floor.

"I come bearing brushes," I announce, sitting down next to SImon. He and Penelope each take a large brush and Simon sets to work opening the paint cans with a screwdriver.

While he's working someone puts on music. I don't recognize it at first. And then I do. Because of course they listen to Broadway musicals while they paint sets. They _do_ alternate musicals, after all. Simon passes me the can of green paint, grinning.

"You're on leaf duty," he says as someone (I think Garreth) starts to sing. It's only a matter of time before they all start in.

I don't know exactly what I was expecting. Certainly not Broadway. And certainly not painting leaves on trees while Simon and Penelope laugh at Garreth's singing.

**Penelope**

Garreth's singing is atrocious. But it always is. And he always insists on singing the loudest. Simon isn't singing for once. Maybe he's nervous. I think I probably would be if I was sure to make a fool of myself in front of Micah. Well. Maybe not. Not that I think Simon would _actually_ make a fool of himself. He was the Phantom, after all. And he killed it.

Simon laughs at something Baz says, but I wasn't paying attention. And considering how red Simon is, I think I'm glad I didn't hear it.

 

**9:13pm**  
**Baz**

The shower in our ensuite is the newest addition to the room. It's a walk-in with no door; it's got more of a half-wall that separates it from the rest of the bathroom. As such, the door to the bathroom was always locked before the holidays. Neither of us wanted the other to barge in while we were showering. Though I did think about barging in on Simon once or twice anyway. Just to catch a peek. Those were the kinds of fantasies that sustained me through the summer.

But I stopped locking the door after the holiday. Mostly because I never lock the door to my ensuite at home and I had to consciously remind myself to lock the door here. And partly because I half-hoped Simon would barge in on me one day.

I get into the room first, so I get into the bathroom first. Which means that I'm about to start trying to wash the green and yellow paint from my hair when Simon barges in, every inch of his golden skin on display.

He's covered in paint, too. Penny made sure we both were before the set building session was over. But he looks at me like he isn't here to wash off the paint. He seems unsure of himself, like he didn't quite think he'd get this far and hasn't planned what to do now that he's here.

He also looks at me like he's going to devour me.

Wordlessly, he takes the bottle of shampoo from my hand and pours some into his palm.

The shower is small for a walk-in, so it isn't hard for him to crowd me against the back wall. This isn't exactly how I expected to spend my evening. Though I can't say I'm complaining.

"Simon," I try to protest as he reaches up to run his shampoo-covered hands through my hair. But whatever protest I had dies in my throat because Simon Snow is pressed against me in the shower, nearly every inch of him, and he's massaging shampoo into my scalp like it's his sole purpose in life.

**Simon**

"Dear God, don't you ever stop," Baz breathes, his eyes rolling back. I knew that people with long hair like for other people to play with it, because Penny likes it whenever I brush or braid her hair, but I never knew it could have this effect.

He must go a bit weak at the knees, because his slides partway down the wall. Far enough that I'm almost holding him up by his head. Which is an odd position to be in, but it puts his mouth under mine. I kiss him then, gripping at his hair the best I can with it soaped up and slick, and the groans into it. Almost like he's in pain. But I know better.

He grabs at my forearms, right at my elbow like he's trying to hold himself up, and I give his hair a tug. It's not too hard, because I'm not trying to hurt him, but it's enough to make him groan again and bite at my lip. And that is stellar.

He's white hot everywhere I touch him, which is just about everywhere. And maybe I am, too. I feel so hot I might burst into flames. But that could be the water temperature. Baz takes excessively hot showers.

I gently pry my mouth away from his and lift him back up to walk him back under the spray. He sputters a bit, half giggling, but he lets me work my fingers through his hair, rinsing all the shampoo and paint away.

**Baz**

Simon finally decides he's done with my hair, so I give it a once-over to make sure the shampoo is all out before I grab Simon and haul him in for another kiss. It's hot and slick and much, much better without the threat of soap in my eyes.

I pull him back and let him press me into the wall, trying to grab hold of his hips and falling gloriously because everything is too damn slippery. He's hot to the touch, and it's only partially to do with the water. Everywhere I touch- hips, chest, back, neck- all of it is like white hot fire beneath my fingers. I run my hands down his back, gently raking his skin with my nails, and he shivers and moans deliciously.

As he's moaning into my mouth, there is only one thing I can think of that I want to do other than kiss him. So I slide my around to his stomach and wrap it around his cock, where it was hard against mine.

Simon bloody Snow freezes.

"Is this okay?" I ask.

He doesn't say anything. Which is worrying considering Simon bloody Snow normally will not shut up. In fact, he barely breathes.

"Simon?"

Taking a deep breath, he nods. "Yes."

I stroke down once and he gasps sharply, back up and he exhales roughly. I do it again and the gasp turns into a low moan. He drops his head onto my shoulder. I'm sure it can't be comfortable, as his head is now in just the right position for water to run directly into his face, but his breath on my neck is electric so I can't be bothered to move him. I give him a couple more slow strokes before kissing his neck and lowering down to my knees.

"Oh god, Baz. Oh my god," Simon babbles almost incoherently. He leans forward and rests his head against the wall of the shower.

I always knew that Simon was well endowed- you can only cover up a morning hard-on so well- but I am truly blessed.

I've never done this before. I hardly have any clue what I'm doing. Obviously during the summer I attempted to wank my feelings for Simon away I watched plenty of porn, but doing it in real life (with Simon Snow's beautiful cock staring you in the face) is a bit different. For one, the steam in the shower makes you a bit lightheaded. For another, you're sort of absolutely terrified that you'll be absolute shit at it.

But what the hell? I'm already down here.

I grab his hip with one hand and the base of his cock with the other and just...go. He shudders and gasps when I first run my tongue up the underside of the shaft, then groans loudly when I swirl my tongue around the tip (which I fully admit to having seen in a porno once). I do that a couple more times, until he starts mumbling my name over and over. Then I take a deep breath and take the whole thing into my mouth. Well, as far as I can without gagging. Which earns me the loudest moan I've ever heard come from Simon Snow's mouth and an involuntary thrust that nearly chokes me.

I sneak a quick glance up at his face and Simon is absolutely wrecked.

"Baz," he breathes, "Baz, I can't hold on much longer... oh god-!"

**Simon**

What people don't tell you about having sex for the first time is that it hardly ever goes absolutely right for both parties involved. I can't say that after I came, I got right down on my knees and sucked Baz off just as enthusiastically as he did me. Because that would be the single biggest lie I ever told in my life.

No, I opened my eyes to Baz licking his lips and looking for all the world like a cat that had just had one mouse and wads staring down a second, and almost came again. But my limbs went numb and I ended up kneeling on the tile in front of him (level with him), kissing him and letting him guide me through a very clumsy hand job.

He didn't seem to mind too much. Just kissed me and ran his hands through my hair and told me I could make it up to him next time.

"So that means there'll be a next time?" I ask as I curl up next to him in his bed.

"Why wouldn't there be?" he responds, and he's starting to slur his words a bit like he does when he's falling asleep.

"I just figured I fucked it up," I say. He's warm and his hair is still damp and he smells like he usually does after he gets out of the shower. Except not exactly.

"You may be an exceptional fuck up, Snow, but you didn't fuck that up."

Well. I guess that's that, then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you guys I'd have it up soon! Sorry if it's a bit rough. To quote Baz, I've never done this before. And in first person too! I've tried to go back through and search for typos, but alas. It's three in the morning and I have work later. The next chapter should be up...hopefully soon. And hopefully it won't take as long because I won't be trying to figure out how to write a sex scene in the first person. Anyway, thank you to everyone who left a comment last chapter!! I am so thrilled at the reception the last chapter got. Let me know what you think of this chapter! (Let me know if you think I should never write a sex scene again!) <3


	24. Saturday, January 10, 2016

  
**Baz**

The drive into London is long and slow. At least the rain cleared up, though. The sun makes the drive seem less arduous. And it isn't even that the drive is especially awful, but hitting London traffic and slogging through the city to Fiona's flat almost makes me regret the decision to visit Fiona today. Come to think of it, the only reason I decided to visit today is that Nico isn't home.

Not that I don't like Nico. He and Fiona helped raise me. Took me in when I needed them. I owe Nico more than I care to admit. But this is a conversation I want to have with Fiona alone.

She's waiting for me at the door when I finally arrive.

"Basil," she starts in her business voice, "You haven't spoken to me since Christmas."

She pulls me in for a hug and I can't help rolling my eyes. "Christmas wasn't that long ago. And besides, I've been busy."

"Busy with what?" she asks sharply. "What on earth is so important that you can't even so much as text your aunt? Who, might I add, gives you a roof over your head every --"

"I've been busy with the play. And with Simon," I interrupt her before she can work up to a full strop. She's almost as good as Simon at it. Almost. When Simon gets worked into a full bluster, there's no stopping him. Fiona can at least be stopped by reason.

She blinks for a second, then pulls me inside, closes and locks the door, and sets me down on the sofa. "You've been busy. With Simon. The same Simon you've been in love with for six years? The Simon you auditioned for the play for? The Simon that I dug you out of the snow with?"

"Technically Nico dug us out," I correct her grinning.

"You know exactly what I mean, Basil, " she snaps.

"Yeah, that Simon," I confirm.

"Wait, are you two? Did you two--?"

"Yeah? I think? I'm not sure exactly what you're asking."

She huffs, "Are you two together now? Are you two a thing? Did it actually work?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that, but yeah. I think it did."

**Fiona**

I can't hug my nephew fast enough. He laughs awkwardly, flushing and scratching the back of his neck like he did when he was twelve years old and I'd asked him if he had a crush. Six years harbouring a crush for this boy, Simon, and he's finally done it. I couldn't be prouder of him.

"We have to celebrate."

"There's nothing to celebrate yet, Fi," he protests, but I'm already up and halfway to the bottle of vodka I keep in the freezer.

"Bullshit there isn't!" I yell back from the kitchen. "You've captured young Simon's heart! We would be feasting if I had more food in this place! I ought call Nico and have him come home early!"

I'm mostly doing it to embarrass him at this point. Though I do pour him a drink and take a shot myself. And when I hand it to him, I wait until he's taken a drink before I ask, "So is he any good?" Just for the spit take he does.

"Fiona!" he sputters, wiping vodka and soda from his chin.

"What? Like you haven't been shagging like rabbits since Christmas?" I can't help snigger.

"No! We haven't!"

"We'll that's a surprise." I wink at him and I didn't know it was possible, but he looks at me even more scandalized than before. I've never seen my nephew, normally stoic as his mother, this ruffled before. Natasha would love it.

**Baz**

Fiona sobers up and says, "I'm proud of you, boyo. And I think your mother would be, too."

"Father hates me," I say, as nonchalantly as I can muster.

"Your father's a twat," she spits. "Your mother would have been proud of you. Nico and I are proud of you. And I think that stepmother of yours is pretty proud of you, too. You don't need the approval of Malcolm Grimm. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

I wish it felt that way. But it's nice to hear.

"So," she says in her changing-the-subject voice. "How's the play going?"

"Really well, actually. We're off-book finally. And sets are done, so we've been rehearsing with them. It's all coming together."

And that isn't a lie. With only five rehearsals left before the dress rehearsal, we've got most of the play blocked and ready. I didn't think we'd have as much done as we do, but Miss Possibelf runs a tight ship. And once she got the chorus off-book, it all started coming together.

Fiona grins. "Wait here."

She disappears into her bedroom, and for a good few minutes all I can hear is the moving of boxes and the occasional crash that means she's dropped something. Once the noise dies down, it's only a few more minutes before she reemerges carrying a black garment bag. She holds it out to me.

"This was your mother's. It's the dress she wore to her Leaver's Ball. You're a bit taller than she was, and a bit wider, but I think with a few minor alterations it should fit nicely."

I only half listen to whatever else she says as I carefully unzip the bag. Inside on a velvet hanger is a dark purple dress. It has a high lace collar and sleeves that look like they'll cover clear down to my wrists. Intricate beading accents the lace on the corsetted bodice and a silver ribbon with more beading cinches the waist. The bottom of the dress is made of rich velvet and looks as though it'll fall fairly straight, which could be a problem as my hips aren't particularly feminine. But otherwise, it is absolutely stunning.

"This is for me?" I ask.

"For the play," Fiona affirms. "I figure you'll need a costume."

"It's beautiful."

"Your mum always did love beautiful things. Why she fell for your father is beyond me, but she got you out of it. So I can't really complain much." She bumps my shoulder with hers and I can't help but laugh.

**Simon**

Mum's office door is closed when I get to the top of the tower stairs, and I have to take a full minute before I can actually knock because my heart is trying to jump out of my throat. I don't know what I was thinking when I asked Mum if we could talk today, but I'm starting to really regret it. Because what am I going to say? "Hey, Mum, remember how Baz and I hated each other? Well apparently he's been in love with me since second year and I don't know when I fell in love with him, but we've been shagging in the shower in our bathroom?" She'd kill me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I check it and see across the top of my screen, "Mum: Come in, Simon." How?

She's sitting at her desk, tapping away on her laptop when I open the door. She doesn't look up when I enter, but she says, "Come on in and have a seat, Simon. I just need to finish this email."

Mum is always emailing someone. Always. I don't know how many people she emails in a day, but it has to be at least a few dozen. It's probably parents and teachers and the board of trustees and whoever else. She has a lot of people to answer to. It must be exhausting.

She stops typing, reads over what she has, and (I'm assuming) hits send. Then she closes her laptop and folds her hands over it.

"Alright, Simon, I'm all ears."

I'm not sure if my heart was already pounding in my ears, but if not it is now. And on top of that, I have a vague nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like I've eaten _just_ too much and my stomach is trying too hard to get rid of it. And has it _been_ this hot in here? Or am I just imagining it? And why are my ears ringing?

"Simon? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, sorry," I barely force out. "I just...I don't know exactly where to start. Or how to start."

"You could start at the beginning," Mum suggests. I can tell she's trying to be helpful, but the way she said it- too slow, impatient- doesn't help at all. I swallow and try again.

"So, you know how I spent all that time with Baz over Christmas? Going to his house to rehearse and then going out on Christmas Eve?"

She nods, so I continue, "Well. I really did go to Baz's to rehearse. But then things kind of happened" She gives me the mum look "and we're kind of...dating now."

For a solid thirty seconds, Mum just sits and stares at me, her left eyebrow raised. Somewhere between "Christmas Eve" and "things kind of happened" my palms started sweating. Profusely. And I don't think they've ever sweated like this before. Not even when I met Dr. and Mrs. Wellbelove for the first time. And I was a mess when I met the Wellbeloves.

Right when I think I can't take any more of her stare, when my hands start shaking and my heart starts racing and my chest feels like there's an elephant sitting on it, Mum smiles.

"Thank you for telling me, Simon. I wondered when you would."

And just what the bloody hell does that mean?

"I talked with Penny about your date after you left Christmas Eve. She didn't want to say anything, and made me swear not to say anything to you before she said anything at all. But she told me about you and Baz dating. Or maybe dating. Because she wasn't sure if things were going to work out at the time."

"I'll throttle her," I mutter, mostly to myself.

But I must've said It loud enough for her to hear because she snaps, "You will do no such thing."

I swear, she and Penny must have some sort of super hearing.

"Now, while I am happy for you, Simon, I have to say that I have a few concerns. Not the least of which being you two are roommates." Before I can open my mouth to protest, she puts up a hand. "There is nothing specifically in the Watford code of conduct that prohibits romantic relationships between roommates, however the code was written before same-sex couples were really talked about openly. So again, I am concerned about the potential implications of you two living together and what sort of precedent it could set."

"But Mum--"

"Simon, you know as well as I do that the Board is fairly conservative. You've met them." She's right. I have. "And you know the kind of fight they might put up if word gets out that I'm allowing romantic partners live together."

I can't even really say anything. I know that the Board would absolutely gut her if they found out. Not just because we're gay and together and roommates. Because I'm her son, and gay, and dating my roommate. They would likely try to make her step down as headmistress. Because they're almost all gigantic fucking assholes.

"All that said," Mum continues, less harsh now, "if you two can keep quiet, keep your heads low, then I shouldn't have to re-room either of you."

"Really?" I think that's doable. We can manage keeping it quiet. We have so far.

"Really," she smiles. "But first word from the Board and I'll have to move one of you, understood?"

 I don't know exactly when I got up to run around the desk, but I run around the desk and crush Mum in a hug. To get credit, she isn't fazed at all. She just laughs a bit and pats my arm. 

"I love you, Mum."

"I love you too, Simon."


End file.
